


Our Little Secret

by vodkabite



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Nicole Haught, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - No Curse, Angst, Daddy Kink, Earp Family Feels, Emotional Growth, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, F/F, High School Student Waverly Earp, Inspired by Call Me By Your Name, Intimacy, Loss of Virginity, Married Nicole Haught/Michelle Earp, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Omega Waverly Earp, Personal Growth, Protective Earp Sisters, Romantic Tension, Rutting, Slow Burn, Step-Parent Nicole Haught
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23474062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkabite/pseuds/vodkabite
Summary: Amid the vivid brilliance of their sun-drenched summer, Waverly discovers the exhilarating beauty of wanting someone she shouldn't.And then reality settles in.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Nicole Haught/Michelle Earp, Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught
Comments: 146
Kudos: 445





	1. Intro

As if it were yesterday, Waverly, only a few months shy of her twelfth birthday, bright-eyed and so in love with classical literature, watches the woman pull up the driveway in a shiny black Camaro. Billowy blue shirt, wide-open collar, slim fitting khakis, tan boots with matching belt, a pair of sunglasses perched atop her head, skin everywhere. Underneath the midday sun, the red-haired woman looks so cool.

The more Waverly looks, leaning out her bedroom window, the more she wants to see. The shirt, the rolled-up sleeves, the silver dog tags hanging around her neck and bouncing against her chest with every step; the woman’s eagerness to move and run, to test the hot gravel path that led to the homestead is palpable. All the tell-tale signs of a young officer of the law still in the prime of their career—a stark contrast to the gaggle of policemen who have become round-bellied and sluggish in their old age, protecting Purgatory from behind their desks and complacencies.

Wynonna, Waverly’s sister, comes behind her then.

“She looks confident,” she tells her older sister who looks down at their new guests from the same open window she did. Watching the woman shake hands with their father, smile outshining the sun. Leaving Waverly feeling more than a little disarmed.

“Give it time, us Earps will drive her insane and she’ll high-tail it out of here,” Wynonna says with a cynical grin, comical and almost cartoonish.

Waverly shakes her head at her sister’s mischievousness. There’s no way a person, like that woman, all cool and collected, would stick around long enough to let herself be driven up a wall by them. The Earps are a weird and chaotic lot. She’ll come and go as swiftly as she arrived, taking the sun with her when she does.

Willa, the oldest sister, calls them downstairs and Wynonna rolls her eyes. Loudly sucking her teeth, “Might as well put me in a monkey suit and do a couple of tricks for Dad’s new cop.”

On the way down, the walls echo with pride and laughter, their father regarding the woman with the utmost praise—“I had to fight with Nedley to take this one under my wing,” he booms proudly—and Waverly wonders just who this stranger is, almost tripping on the last step as she rounds the corner off the stairs and into the living room.

Stopping immediately when the stranger’s piercing gaze falls upon her, honey-golden eyes freezing her to the spot.

In the way that only siblings know how, all three Earp girls line up from eldest to youngest, tallest to shortest, to greet the woman that had their father in stitches and their mother gazing with stars in her eyes.

“Hi,” the woman says warmly, “I’m Nicole. Nicole Haught.”

Quietly, Waverly repeats it to herself, mouthing out the name and feeling each syllable roll off the tip of her tongue seamlessly.

Waverly bites her bottom lip and stretches her hand out as her father, Ward, introduces her first. Nicole smiles kindly and extends her hand as well, only to stop, startling Waverly with the knowledge that she knew the omega loves to read books and is the smartest, nicest girl in all Purgatory. The fondness she has for reading fantastical novels about dragons, dashing heroes, and beautiful princesses. Nicole corrects herself and brings the back of Waverly’s hand to her lips.

Waverly blushes, the heat rushing to her face, coloring her cheeks a bright red. It does not go unnoticed; blushing harder as she hears her mother murmur something about a crush to her father, and the amused lilt of Willa’s eyes when she casts a cursory gaze across the room to see if anyone else would continue the embarrassment.

Yet, Wynonna doesn’t find the exchange charming. Instead, she brazenly makes a joke about Nicole’s last name and extends her hand out for the same chivalrous treatment.

Lips curving upward in a smirk. “It’s only fair.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Wynonna is taken aback, staring with wide eyes, as she did not expect Nicole to actually respond to her. And with the same snarky little tone too. Nicole kisses the back of Wynonna’s hand, finishing with a charming wink that even her dark-haired sister couldn’t dismiss to save herself from the sudden wave of embarrassment washing over her.

Finally, introductions finish with a handshake with Willa. Unlike the first two, the eldest Earp sister isn’t all that impressed by the older woman. Doesn’t find her all that interesting. Nicole takes no offence as many others in her place would, if not, certainly feel shaken by the blatant dismissal, instead she silently assures Willa that she will. Eventually.

They sit around the living room and listen to Nicole amuse everyone with her life, the long string of academic accolades, why she decided to become a police officer. And most of all: what on earth possessed her to continue her career in Purgatory, off all places. Wynonna asks a bunch of rapid-fire questions, most of which having nothing to do with the topic, and Nicole coolly answers them all without a single misstep.

Their mother, Michelle, brings in the refreshments, iced tea for the children, and beer for the adults. Finding it cute that Nicole, being twenty-five and well past the legal drinking age, doesn’t automatically reach for the bottle and pours herself a glass of iced tea. Explaining that she’s a bit of a lightweight. Whereas Ward promises that he and the rest of the “goons at the station” will be sure to change that.

They laugh, Mama playfully slaps his upper arm, Wynonna looks more than a little intrigued, Willa is unreadable, and Waverly...

Waverly stares.

Stirring her spoon, occasionally looking down and following the mini whirlpools she creates in her cup.

Before she knows it, it’s time for Nicole to leave. Willa is gone by this point, having already said her goodbyes earlier to go chat on the phone with her boyfriend upstairs, Wynonna’s head peers out from the corner of the kitchen entrance and mutters a half-assed farewell. Waverly, being the only child left, for some odd reason takes it upon herself to apologize.

Nicole tells her not to worry about it, her response is that she knows what it’s like to have older siblings.

From her bedroom window, Waverly could only guesstimate the alpha’s size. But now, here in person, she knows the woman is… _tall_. She towers over everyone (except Ward) and by comparison, Waverly is nothing more than a tiny speck.

A mere child.

The adults make their way to the front door and Wynonna joins her in staring at them with a bag of powdered mini donuts in hand. Then, making a casual observation, she mentions Nicole’s arms look strong enough to snap a person in half like a twig.

Waverly can’t help but wonder about the warmth one would find in them instead.

Ward grabs his jacket from the coat rack by the door, Mama wishes them both a good drive, telling them to be safe, and Nicole turns around to bid the girls farewell.

“Bye Wynonna, Waves.”

Her sister stays resolute and nonchalantly tips her chin upwards in lieu of parroting the goodbye or even waving. But Waverly is unable to speak. Hand caught in mid-shy wave, hanging in the air awkwardly as the alpha leaves.

The omega has never heard anyone use her nickname to say goodbye before. Soft, sweet, spoken with a warm reverence as though she promises to see her again, come hell or high water.

This is the first thing Waverly will always remember about Nicole. The smoothness of her voice and the smile that followed.

_Waves._


	2. Act 1, Chapter 1

The last day of school at Purgatory High is always a riotous occasion: from the moment the first bell rings at 8:00 on the dot, an energy seeps into the air, smooth and slow like honey; when the second bell rings at 8:15, initiating the start of first period, the energy begins to fester. Classrooms are empty, void of any colorful decorations; students sit on the edge of their seats with bated breath as talk of summer vacation, of freedom, fills their every breath.

Hallways are a whirlwind of activity in the three minutes between classes, staff and faculty alike move just as quickly, the eagerness to get through the day lowers their guard and many casually chat with their students. Some of them are still hard pressed in keeping order until the final bell, watching everyone with a critical eye, detention slips at the ready. Some students are unlucky enough to actually get detention on the last day of school, but the promise of what’s to come keeps their spirits up.

People barely eat during their lunch period, too busy fidgeting in their usual seats. At their table, Chrissy mentions that the grapevine has dried up and there’s nothing juicy to talk about, somewhat surprised because for a small town where everyone knows your name, there’s always something going on, while Jeremy is not so subtly stealing glances from one of the theatre kids sitting by the vending machines.

And Waverly? Well, she just wants the day to be over already. Part of her feels a little disheartened that the year is over. The routine she had followed dutifully for ten short months coming to an abrupt halt, leaving her with another summer of the same old, same old.

Last period crawls into place and students begin watching the clock intensely, eyes obscenely bulging out of their heads as they countdown. Waverly already has her things packed and ready to go when students in her class start to crowd around the door. Their English teacher, Mr. Goldsby, is half asleep in his chair, only waking up fully when the energy in the room climbs. And climbs. The walls shake, the floor trembles. Students vibrating uncontrollably like electrical wires.

Three…

Two…

The final bell rings and every door in the building explodes open with everyone barreling through its crowded corridors at highspeed. Papers are thrown in the air and everyone celebrates at the top of their lungs.

She meets with Jeremy and Chrissy at the bottom of the steps of the second-floor stairwell. Jeremy awkwardly wishes a passing Robin Jett a good summer, and Chrissy is practically hopping up and down like a rabbit, eager to share the news that they were invited to B-Train’s End of the Year Party.

“It’s going to be so much fun!” The beta exclaims as they leave the building. Narrowly escaping the idiot York Brothers zooming out of the entrance on their skateboards.

“Chris, doesn’t he always have a party at the end of the year? During the year?” Waverly reminds.

“Plus, we go every year,” Jeremy adds.

“Yeah, but this one will be different, there’s going to be college students there!” Chrissy says. “You’re going right?”

Waverly gives it a thought; college students at a high school party usually brings nothing but trouble. She still remembers Mama grounding Wynonna for going to one thrown by the Gardner Sisters years back.

She shakes her head. “I think I’m going to pass on this one.”

“Okay.” Chrissy pouts, but relents. “Hey Jer, you still coming right?”

“Uh huh, yeah.” It’s a half-assed answer. When they turn to the male omega, they catch him staring at Robin again. All googly-eyed and red in the face. The girls giggle at his less than subtle crush.

He is elbowed back to attention, though startled, he asks what they were talking about and the girls just shake their heads at him. Knowing that as long as the pale-skinned, fluffy-haired beta is within sight, Jeremy won’t be able to focus on much of anything.

They separate, each heading their own way; Chrissy getting into her father’s cop car, and both Waverly and Jeremy on their bikes in opposite directions.

Summer in June is an addictive and sultry affair; breezing through Purgatory headily, akin to your ear being caressed by the warm air of a lover’s words. Everyone floods the streets eager to reward themselves after months of hardships, students already celebrating the end of the year with feverish excitement. The rancorous behavior begins, and the adults start to helplessly mourn the loss of their usual peace and quiet, parents lamenting ever having children as they take to the streets running amok and painting the town different colors. Others, Waverly’s kind, happily resign themselves to spending their days in a comatose slumber, leisurely taking in the summer.

Police officers, who regularly spend their shifts behind desks and uneventfully patrolling, are now forced to move faster and book troublemakers, pranksters, and the occasional petty thief. Solace only comes once the self-indulgent debauchery hits its peak and wanes into July.

For the first week of July, after Canada Day, is undeniably the true start to summer as it sets the tone for the rest of the season.

A casual glance towards her social media feeds reveal that this summer is looking to be quite dull. The usual suspects, the popular kids, haven’t posted anything exciting. Still, classes have only just ended, so she doesn’t expect much to happen during these last few days of June.

It is during these days that adults prepare. Biking through town she can see the dark cloud looming over all the adults, an anxious prickling sets upon their skin for what was to come. They know it well, the feeling. Aunt Gus and Uncle Curtis especially, having dreaded this moment since the weather got hotter and all the heathens started to swarm their bar. First a trickle, easy and light, until finally, tonight, waves upon waves people will flood their doors.

When she arrives at Shorty’s Bar and Grill, Gus is outside sweeping any stray litter from the store’s front, murmuring to herself. Waverly giggles at the look of disdain on the beta’s face; probably wondering if there’s enough left in the budget to hire a security guard or two.

“Afternoon, Gus,” she says, dismounting from her bike.

“Every summer it gets worse, this generation is a goddamn nightmare!” Gus grumbles with a nod, following her inside.

“Not entirely, they did invent the cronut, after all.” Curtis winks at Waverly playfully from behind the bar.

They start to squabble, and Waverly props her bike up against the wall and slips into a booth. Not one for waiting until the last minute, Waverly, takes it upon herself to get started on her summer homework. The early bird catches the worm as they say. She never did understand why people waited until the last minute to get things done. Answer a packet of questions, write an essay, make notes, read the assigned book, highlight passages from said book; nothing she hasn’t done before.

Curled up in the corner of the booth, knees bent,  _ Antony and Cleopatra  _ by the inimitable Shakespeare, lays splayed open across her thighs. An old favorite of hers. Almost instantly, upon turning away from the dramatis personae, Gus and Curtis’ voices quiet down to barely a hum as she is swept away.

The rush of hurried footsteps and the clang of heavy chain mail fills her ears, voices murmur and whisper behind cupped fingers, and it is then, that Waverly highlights the first important line of her adventure. And just as the fanfare begins, fully entrenched in the play, she sees a car jerkily trying to park in front of the bar.

A familiar black and white Dodge Charger police car is busy bobbing forward and back, trying to nestle itself between two other cars. The driver, a particularly energetic Wynonna, alternates between looking out her window, over the back of her seat, and peering over Nicole’s lap for a view of her sideview mirror; the tip of the younger alpha’s tongue comically poking out of the corner of her mouth. Whereas Nicole, argues fruitlessly into the air about something as they finally settle into the tight parking spot.

Waverly shakes her head and smiles to herself.

Wynonna steps out first, dressed from head to toe in black, backpack lazily slung over her shoulder and a brown paper bag from Tatenhill’s Bakery and Ice Cream Shop. Donuts, it’s always donuts. The powdery ones judging from the slightly noticeable mess on her shirt.

Nicole follows, wide-eyed and disheveled, staring in disbelief at Wynonna’s easy nonchalance to almost smashing into the other vehicles. She rubs the back of her neck, feigning whiplash.

They joke around, tossing good-natured barbs back and forth, Nicole placing a hand to calm her still racing heart.

Gone is the image of a young Nicole Haught with her billowy blue shirt and wide-open collar, the one who would wear the shortest of shorts, skin always on display for the world to see. In its place is the standard dark blue police uniform, wound tight by a sky-blue tie and a black duty belt, her cap’s visor weighing heavily over her eyes.

Shorty’s front door swings open, and Wynonna obnoxiously inhales a deep breath, taking in the scent of beer fresh from the tap, and the earthly spice of sawdust. She sighs appreciatively and makes a beeline for the bar. Saying hi to Curtis, who is busy wiping down the counter to fully notice when she hops over it.

Nicole plops into the other side of Waverly’s booth, loosens her tie and puts her on the table. Groaning as she stretches her limbs outward, throwing her head against the top of the backrest. Exhaustion revealing itself beneath the hard-working mask.

“Long day at work?” Waverly asks by way of greeting. Nicole nods, but doesn’t move to face her, nose still upturned towards the ceiling.

“Yeah,” the alpha runs her hands flat over face before sitting upright, clearing her throat. “Chased a few idiot kids today.”

Waverly nods, understanding the faraway look in Nicole’s eyes: the quiet searching and the reassuring yes, being a police officer in Purgatory is worth the trouble. Such as it is, trouble, the kind she had been used to in Calgary, is rare here: strange and unnatural, like a unicorn. Maybe. Purgatory, and the Ghost River Triangle by large, is an uneventful, out-of-the-way town that only sees excitement during federal holidays and town events. Nicole gives a small shrug of her shoulders and undoes the tie from around her collar. She unbuttons the first few buttons on her dark blue shirt, the color blending seamlessly with the black undershirt underneath. A rare sight in this weather.

Reminds Waverly of the time she overheard Nicole and Mama talking as the latter was getting dressed for a benefit Senator Clootie was throwing. Nicole had asked why she was wearing a black dress when his party color was orange.

Mama responded with:  _ black is slimming; bright colors add a few pounds. _

“That Hardy boy is a nightmare to deal with. I think I’d be able to die happily if I could just knock him out, at least once.”

“Champ?” Waverly asks. Nicole turns to her then, brow arched. “What did he do?”

Nicole opens her mouth to speak, but Wynonna, strolling out of the back with a bowl of salted pretzels, interrupts. A proud, devious smirk on her face as she makes herself comfortable in the booth behind theirs on Waverly’s side. “Chump Change thought it was wise to drive his car onto the football field and hold a little smoking session with some of his friends. Idiot.”

Wynonna’s disdain for Champ Hardy is legendary. Ever since they were children and he went around terrorizing playgrounds, professing himself King of the Jungle Gym, the alpha has always been chomping at the bit for a chance to knock him on his ass. (He’s since mellowed out of his childish grandiosity, thankfully, not that Wynonna cares.)

“So, the cops show up and the dumbasses start scrambling; they had alcohol they nicked from B-Train’s dad, stashed in the trunk. These fuckers were high and drunk, and the cops chased them all over the field; two of them go slip n’ slidin’ through a pile of mud, Dolls corners one of the York Brothers against the goal post, and Tater-Haught here, tackles Hardy in the stands.”

“And how do  _ you _ know all this?” To her knowledge, Waverly knew Wynonna was supposed to be at Ghost River, signing up for the summer semester.

“Guess who I also caught at the stadium, under the bleachers with their boyfriend?” Nicole says with a disapproving glance.

Of course.

“What? I’m twenty-one, I’m old enough to drink.” Wynonna defends.

“Yes, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that you were drinking on private property.”

“How is it private if the school is public?”

Nicole leans her head back and throws an arm over her eyes, lets out a small chuckle despite herself. Regardless of her quick wit, Waverly chastises her sister with a censorious look. In turn, the young alpha flicks some pretzels at her in response. Waverly squeals, throwing them back.

They start their own little food fight. Throwing pretzels at each other, and once they were all out, they grab the napkin dispensers from their respective tables. They make a complete mess of the booths, but all thoughts of consequences fall to the wayside, their laughter drowning out the sound of the air conditioner overhead sputtering to life for a test run. Curtis takes notice and immediately rushes over, reminding them of how Gus doesn’t like to clean unnecessary messes.

“You know she’s a real dragon when it comes to this,” he whispers conspiratorially, hand beside his mouth.

He looks to reprimand them, not a fan of messes either. But being the big softie that he is, does so with a light hand. Nicole takes the blame for it though, saying that it’s her fault she wasn’t paying attention and should have stopped the girls before they started. Curtis forgives her, he’s done the same on many occasions. But as soon as they hear Gus yelling from the back, they all scramble across the floor.

Caught in the act, the curly haired beta eyes them suspiciously; she knows. They wait for the ax to fall, and for a torturously long minute, they wonder what devious plan Gus has up her sleeve for them. Washing a stack of dishes? Cleaning out the dust and cobwebs from the basement? Or worse, scrape the gum out from under the tables. Yet, Gus shakes her head and pulls out a chair from one of the tables and sits. They are free from work, for now.

“Did you hear?” Gus asks, mostly to Nicole and Curtis. She grabs Wynonna’s bowl. “Loblaw swears she’s got a foolproof plan to attract more out of towners to the festival.”

Nicole shrugs her shoulders. “She says that every year and nothing changes, remember that time she tried to create a viral video by having officers join in on the events?”

Waverly and Wynonna snicker. Gus is unable to keep from doing the same. Oh yes. Everyone remembers  _ that _ Canada Day. In an effort to draw more attention and show a more “fun side” to the police department, Mayor Loblaw had officers take part in the festivities. Sheriff Nedley was tasked to judge the annual bake-off (something he vehemently tried to pretend he didn’t enjoy), Ward was forced to participate in a hot dog eating competition, and several other officers took their stations in the arcade section. But poor Nicole was stuck in the dunk tank.

The alpha was drenched to the bone by the end of the day, no thanks to Wynonna and Willa, who used her as a pawn in another one of their one-upmanships. The only clear loser that day was Nicole.

“She says it’ll work this time. Managed to get through to a friend of hers in CTV Calgary’s news station.”

“After all this time? Well isn’t that lucky.”

“Very lucky.” Wynonna remarks, making a crude gesture with her hand and mouth, tongue poking through her cheek.

Gus doesn’t say anything, but nods. Nicole and Curtis too.

“Swears by it. I’m pretty sure she’ll have a town meeting sometime this week for it.”

“Do you girls have any plans that day?” Curtis asks, “The committee secured some quality arcade machines, I hear there’s going to be a prize for whoever racks up the most tickets.”

Wynonna casually shrugs her shoulders, flip-flopping between yes and no. Whichever sounded the vaguest. Waverly assures that she’ll be there, she never misses it.

“What about you Nicole? Gonna skip out and just work?”

“Actually,” Nicole starts, scratching the back of her neck uneasily, “I’m off that day.”

Everyone stares. And not without reason.

Nicole Haught is a workaholic through and through, spending more time in her uniform than out. Sometimes she’d fall asleep in it and have to be woken up to take it off, other times she’d be tucked in and just left as is. It’s a frequent sight to see her wake up with the perfect imprint of her badge on her cheek, harsh red lines against her pale skin.

“But you never take a day off, even when you’re sick you still show up for work.” Gus says.

“Nedley’s giving me the next month off, today was my last day.”

“Wow,” Is all Curtis says.

“Apparently, I’ve saved up a lot of vacation days over the years and if I don’t use them, I’ll be in trouble.” Nicole explains.

“With Nedley?” Wynonna asks and Nicole nods.

“Says he won’t hesitate to suspend me without pay.”

Despite being very work oriented, Sheriff Nedley understands the importance of taking breaks. He did the same with Ward, a few years back. Trying fruitlessly to get him to take a week off once a year to decompress and mostly, spend time with his family. Ward always refused though, that is until he was forced to go on vacation by the use of some clever schedule manipulation, so it’s likely that Nedley had done the same with Nicole. The only difference Waverly surmises is that Nicole wasn’t as resistant.

“So, you’re going to be home for an entire month?” Wynonna’s lips tease the makings of a smile.

“Yes, but it doesn’t change anything, understand? I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

Wynonna gives her a mock salute, promising that she’ll try to not rouse the older alpha’s ire. Waverly rolls her eyes, knowing full well that her sister is as mischievous as they come. She can’t help herself, after all, it’s practically imprinted in her DNA.

“Well, now that you’ve got a month off, we can definitely use you around the house.” Curtis grins, eyes sparking with delight. “I could use an extra hand in the garden, the strawberries and peaches are coming in just in time for the bake-off.”

“Sure, it would be fun to see the look on Bobo’s face when he spots another familiar face in the race.” Nicole smirks.

“Now that’s something I’d kill to see!” Wynonna exclaims.

After a very long minute, the conversation comes to an awkward halt. Waverly looks between the adults, trying to decipher the secret discussion they were having with their minds.

“We should get going girls, Gus and Curtis have a lot to do,” Nicole says in a voice that sounds a few decibels short of being annoyed.

Gus interrupts then.

“Girls, can you go help John in the back? He’s probably restocking the pantry so it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle.”

Waverly and Wynonna share a confused look but agree to do so anyway, filing out of their booths and walking behind the counter. The adults stay quiet until they’re no longer within ear shot.

In the back, they find John sitting on a stool and watching a sporting event on his phone in the corner, feet propped up on an empty crate. He tells them to give him a minute as whatever he is watching ends, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath that sounds like: “fookin’ bastard blatherin’ all ‘tis shite an’ gets ‘is arse beat by a cheeky bugger the size of me damn finger.”

John is Shorty’s cook (or chef as he likes to refer to himself), a big bearded bear of a man that strikes fear into anyone, his incredibly thick Irish accent is sometimes so hard to understand that it’s easy to mistake him as being belligerent, and many have, but his playful and cheery disposition softens him up.

“’Ello lassies, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He asks, pocketing his phone. 

“Gus wanted us gone so she could talk to Nicole about something.” Waverly elbows Wynonna in the side. 

“She asked us to help you do some stocking.” The omega clarifies. 

John nods in understanding. He stands, a giant compared to them, and directs them to the still untouched crates of different pounds of vegetables. While the girls get to work transferring the vegetables to their designated storage containers, John sits on his stool and counts them, making note on his clipboard. When Wynonna asks why he isn’t helping, he simply responds with a hand to his chest feigning hurt, “Take it easy on an ol’ paddy, McGregor jist lost another match. Broke me Oirish ‘eart it did, ‘tis wounded lass!” 

They laugh, but Nicole isn’t far from Waverly’s mind. One look towards Wynonna and she knows her sister is the same. 

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Waverly asks, it isn’t like them to tell Wynonna and Waverly to leave the room for them to have a private conversation.

“I don’t know,” Wynonna responds grabbing a handful of carrots. They usually just wait for the girls to be too distracted by something else before moving out of the rooms themselves to talk. 

There was always this emphasis in never letting Waverly and her sisters know what they were talking about, serious topics, good or bad, were never open for them to listen and voice their opinions. Willa’s the only one who’s grown up enough to be let into their secretive fold, but even then, it isn’t the same. The eldest Earp sister may have the sharpest mind they’ve ever known, but there are limits to what they let that hawkish brain know. She’s often forced to stand at the top of the stairs to listen in on whatever’s being said downstairs, just like Wynonna and Waverly do. 

Regular sisterly bonding. 

What do they talk about? Is it about them? Or is it about their own lives? Why don’t they want the girls to know? It’s always been this way, and the only solace the omega can lean on is that Nicole at least tries to keep up appearances in a way her parents never did. 

“Hey John, does Gus and Curtis talk to you about us?” Wynonna continues, “Or the rest of the staff? Maybe?” 

The giant alpha shakes his head. “Only good things, you can’t keep ‘em from talkin’ people’s ears off about you girls.” 

The following chuckle ends the conversation; John is too much of a sweetheart to even consider the idea of lying to them and Waverly knows he wouldn’t even entertain the assumption, true or not. The rest of Shorty’s staff members can’t be counted on either, they’re practically the same. Whether it’s out of loyalty to their bosses, or a desire to not rouse up strife within the family, it’s a dead end. 

“You girls should be focusin’ on more important things.” 

The discussion changes to education, school, university, what Waverly plans on doing after graduating high school, what Wynonna’s going to do once she graduates from Ghost River, and John retelling a story from his boyhood in Dublin and how he ran with a rancorous group of boys who loved to run amok and play soccer in the streets. 

They laugh, giggling at how John used to run from the police, or “peelers” as he referred to them, and soon they are joined by a warm voice. Curtis, his face is soft, though the remnants of whatever was said outside still lingers. He jokingly asks if the girls weren’t causing John any trouble, and the alpha jokingly insinuates a yes under a no. Curtis relieves Waverly and Wynonna from their favor, both men bidding farewell as they leave. 

Heading back outside, from over her sister’s shoulder, Waverly catches the glimpse of a solemn look on Gus’s face as she places a hand to Nicole’s shoulder. 

Nicole on the other hand, remains blank. Stoic.

Gus gives one final, reassuring smile, before turning around and changing her attitude in the face of Waverly and Wynonna’s presence. Gus heads to the back, joking about how she can’t let Curtis and John alone for more than a few minutes or else they’ll never get any work done; the levity is a fleeting spark in the silence that leaves just as the beta rounds the corner and disappears. 

Nicole takes a deep breath, exhaling as she stands, knees cracking. “Alright, girls, you ready to go?”

They nod, still wary as Waverly packs up her homework and rolls her bike out, Nicole reminds Wynonna to sign up for Ghost River’s summer semester tomorrow; Gus waves goodbye from behind as they exit and get inside the Charger. Wynonna doesn’t even ask if she can turn on the sirens.

The car ride is quiet. Waverly fiddles with her fingers in her lap, uncomfortable alternating her gaze between the shops and passerby’s outside, and the floor mat of the backseat. Eventually, Nicole breaks the silence with a random fact: “Did you guys know that space has a smell? According to former astronauts, it smells like ‘hot meta;’ or ‘searing steak’.”

It sparks a conversation among them for the duration of the car ride, as Wynonna, being the harsh skeptic that she is, disagrees, calling bullshit. Waverly and her sister quietly trade looks through the rearview mirror. She seems off, like it’s never been this bad, right? And: Whatever Gus said must’ve been really serious to get Nicole this way. And finally: It’s Mama, isn’t it? It’s been Mama for a while. 

_ It’s been a lot of things for a while.  _

No one says anything, of course. It isn’t their place. Never was, and never will. Wynonna sometimes dares to question, the only one brazen enough to step out of key and do so but is always kindly shut down. 

Rolling onto Elmwood, it doesn’t take long for them to pass the Centex Gas Station/Circle K, that they peel off onto the residential road and the homestead comes into view over the horizon. The summer sun’s bright rays framing a halo over its silhouette, a golden hue bathing the surrounding acres of grassland, a sight that never fails to bring a smile to Waverly’s face.

And yet, as they get closer, her smile slips into shock at the appearance of a gray Ford Explorer sitting on the property.

“Oh look, Mama’s back early,” Wynonna observes audibly, shocked too. “I guess Clootie finally got tired of having too many ass kissers and decided to send one home.”

“Wynonna!” Waverly scolds from the backseat. Her sister responds with an indifferent scoff.

“You know it’s true, babygirl.” Wynonna peers through the glass closely for a better look. “Shit, I can see the campaign boxes from here.”

Bulshar Clootie is the newest bleached-white smiling bigwig looking to set the political world ablaze. Waverly doesn’t know a lot about politics, or what it takes to win an election even though she grew up with a mother working as a campaign manager for a variety of politicians, nothing ever stuck; it just wasn’t her thing. All she knows is that Clootie used to be a member of the Conservative Party and kept a low profile for much of his career, unlike most alphas who try to hit the ground running as hard and as loud as possible straight out the gate. But as soon as his hair started to grey and he switched sides to join the New Democratic Party, he started shouting, screaming at the top of his lungs until he was red in the face, demanding everyone’s attention.

Always wearing the party’s bright orange, striking out like a sore thumb in a sea of safe black, white and navy. From the few press conferences she’s seen, Waverly can understand why he’s exactly the kind of person others would want to follow. A self-made businessman turned activist, yes, he’s married to a beta woman with her own law firm and is worth a lot of money, but he knows what the little people want. He’s got that anti-establishment brand that’s appealing to those tired of the old, out of touch crones on Parliament Hill.

And yet, he has no idea what a break is. The concept is entirely alien to him, and the people who work for him.

“C’mon guys,” Nicole says, a hint of dread underlying her words. “Also, Wynonna, you’re washing the dishes tonight.”

Wynonna tries to argue as they make their way to the porch, believing that Nicole is only joshing, but the older alpha remains firm.

Inside, there’s music softly playing. Aided by a long-lost sound: Mama cooking in the kitchen. clattering. Banging wooden cupboards, the clattering of pots and pans, the rattling of containers made of tin and glass; a culinary orchestra against the cheerful pop of Madonna’s “Vogue”. Peering around the corner, they watch the performance with a vested interest.

Mama eventually turns around when the song ends, she isn’t surprised by them standing there. Just smiles and gives an overly dramatic bow, prompting them to play along and clap. She giggles and Nicole smiles, kissing her on the cheek. Much to Wynonna’s dislike.

“Gross.” Wynonna sticks her tongue out in playful disgust, Nicole does the same before pressing another kiss to Mama’s temple.

“Mama what are you doing?” Waverly asks, curiously.

“Honey glazed bacon wrapped meatloaf, and for dessert, strawberry shortcake.”

Wynonna fist bumps the air with a loud celebratory  _ yes _ ! Waverly, on the other hand, is suspicious of the sudden Martha Stewart-like visage over taking their mother. Mama is rarely home as it is, and when she is, she doesn’t pull out all the stops for a meal unless it was a holiday like Thanksgiving. To do so out of the blue, was off.

Nevertheless, Waverly knew better than to get her hopes up.

“You girls head on upstairs while I cook, I’ll call you down when it’s ready.”

Wynonna sucks her teeth from in front of the fridge as she reaches on her tiptoes for the cereal containers on top.

“But what if I want to help?” The young alpha asks, flipping the lid open and grabbing a handful of coco puffs. “I can help you stir the cake batter or put the icing on.”

“Uh huh, the last time I let you help I turned my back for a second and you ate all the icing. Including the sprinkles!” Mama retorts.

“Not my fault the icing was addictive, I was incapable of stopping at just one spoonful.”

“Yeah and you ended up with a stomachache all night,” Waverly adds, “I spent hours rubbing VapoRub on your belly.”

Nicole snickers. And Wynonna rolls her eyes, cheeks turning pink. “Well how come, Nicole gets to stay in the kitchen then?”

“I’m not, in fact I’m heading upstairs for a nap.” Nicole ushers them out of the kitchen.

Waverly knows when to go and is already halfway towards the stairs, but Wynonna decides to make things difficult for the older woman, purposely making herself heavier and forcing Nicole to pusher harder. They start to snip at each other, and Waverly watches them from the top of stairs. Shaking her head, she leaves them alone and enters her room. The door stays open and she settles at her desk, she can hear Wynonna giggling breathlessly, calling mercy. Her one weakness: being tickled.

Waverly pops her headphones in and opens Spotify, hitting play on a classical music playlist while she browses through her phone. Only pausing when she sees Nicole standing in the doorway, knocking on the door. She picks her head up.

“Hey, mind waking me up when dinner’s ready?”

“No problem.”

Nicole smiles her thanks and leaves.

Once the alpha is gone, Waverly lets out a breath and hits play. She pulls out a notebook full of blank music sheets from her backpack, grabs a pencil, and starts writing down notes. A skill Grandpa Edwin had taught her one afternoon while he was babysitting. Waverly hasn’t kept up with it as often as she’d like, getting distracted more by other things, but she’s able to fill at least two pages of notes before calling for a break. As such, she is halfway through finishing Prokofiev’s Dance of the Knights from Romeo and Juliet, when her phone rings and a text message appears on screen.

It’s from Chrissy: Call me!

Waverly can only imagine what the beta has to say. The phone only rings for barely a second when she calls, when Chrissy answers, all excited.

“Waverly, I’ve been talking to Bethany, who heard from Pete, who spoke to Robin, and they’ve confirmed that Perry is definitely going to be at B-Train’s party this Sunday, and that he definitely wants to see you there.”

Oh God, here we go. “Yeah, I highly doubt that.”

Chrissy groans. “Come on, you know Perry’s been crushing on you for years, he’s just a little shy.”

“You said the same thing about Champ in freshman year.”

“Hey, he was pretty convincing, and he also didn’t have tattoos back then!”

Waverly rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I’m still passing on this one, Chris.”

The beta gasps in disbelief, before the line goes quiet for a moment. Waverly knits her brows together and stares at the screen. She’s still on the line—

“Hello?” It’s Jeremy.

“Jer, please tell Waverly that Perry wants to see her at B-Train’s party, so she has to go.”

“Waves, you have to go.”

“Are you serious right now?” Waverly responds. “Jeremy you’re supposed to be on my side, remember? Always!”

“Wait, since when?” Chrissy asks.

“Omega solidarity, Chrissy. Sorry.” Jeremy laughs. In the back they hear a familiar voice and instantly know who it is by the slight stutter in the omega’s response to them. Waverly giggles.

“I see how it is, you just want to spend time with Doc.”

Jeremy starts to sputter, and Chrissy continues teasing him. Doc Holliday, another omega and the son of John Henry, owner of the Holliday Hause Bed and Breakfast, where Jeremy works part time. He’s twenty-one, with an already thickening mustache and a large black cowboy hat that he never takes off; he’s attentive and clever and wicked good at playing cards. 

Jeremy’s had a crush on him ever since he first started working at the quaint little bed and breakfast near the lake in sophomore year. Oh, how he would come to the lunch table after working the afternoon shift the previous day and tell us all about how Doc did this or that. “He showed me how to flip pancakes into the air!” And: “He let me go home early and covered for me.” And: “He’s been teaching me how to keep a straight face during poker.”

He’s also Wynonna’s boyfriend, or “boy toy” as she tends to call him. Knowing that he’s taken hasn’t stopped him from blushing whenever Doc smiles or winks playfully at him, if anything, Wynonna actively indulges it and goes out of her way to tease him about it too.

They continue chatting; the conversation, once Chrissy had finally gotten it through her head that Waverly wasn’t going to budge, dissolves into that about how the rest of their day went after they parted ways on the quad: Jeremy helped Mr. Henry make a fresh batch of donuts, Chrissy almost losing her mind from the long wait at the post office, and Waverly telling them how Wynonna still sucks at parking. Jeremy says his goodbyes soon after when a voice calls to remind him that his break is over, and Chrissy tells them that she needs to go too, her father ordered a pizza and she’s been tasked to pick it up.

They say their goodbyes and Waverly goes back to transcribing her music. Before long, two hours have passed, and Mama is yelling for everyone to come to the dining table.

Taking off her earbuds, she pockets her phone, and heads out the room. Hearing that Wynonna is downstairs already, and Willa’s room is still empty, she drops by the master bedroom at the far end of the hall. The door is ajar, with barely a sliver of space for her to see through. She knocks three times, with no answer, she opens it fully. Nicole is on the bed taking more than just a quick nap. Her long limbs sprawled in every direction, hair a mess from tossing and turning until she found that one position—flat on her stomach with her face pressed into a pillow—she can comfortably burrow into; she’s in a deep sleep. All the while still wearing her uniform.

“Nicole.” Waverly calls softly, but the alpha doesn’t move.

“Nicole.” She tries again, a little louder. Still nothing.

She can’t bring herself to disturb the peaceful look on Nicole’s face, doesn’t have the heart to do it after knowing how long it’s been since she’s seen Nicole actually relax without keeping one eye and ear open. But Nicole has never missed a family dinner and has always made great strides to be at the table even if running a little late.

She wouldn’t want to miss it. 

Waverly knocks on the door harder, her voice even louder. Startled, Nicole shoots into the air like a rocket. Bleary eyed and ready to go.

“Is it eight o’ clock already?” She asks, unfocused, swinging her legs around the edge of the bed, “Oh fuck, Nedley’s going to kill me!”

Waverly shakes her head and raises her hands in front of her. “No, no, it’s still seven at night.”

Nicole squints. “What?”

“It’s time for dinner. Remember? You wanted me to wake you up when it was time.”

Nicole blinks, confused, before realizing with widened eyes. She nods her head in understanding, rubs the sleep out of her eyes, and yawns an apology. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry—give me a minute, I’ll be down.”

Waverly nods and heads downstairs where she finds Wynonna busy setting the table, albeit slowly, distracted by whatever conversation she’s having on the phone. Whatever is being said, the omega can only assume it must be important considering all the excited “yeahs”, “uh huhs”, and “totallys”. Waverly decides to help; much easier than watching her sister haphazardly balance delicate clay plates and glass cups in her hands. And yet, the helping hand results in her sister immediately taking a seat and thanking her for taking over.

Waverly rolls her eyes. Should’ve known, must’ve been the plan all along.

Nicole comes down soon after, still dressed in her uniform, though her tie hangs looser around her collar. She takes a seat, looking wider awake than before. She points to Wynonna, mouthing, “Who’s she talking to?” Waverly shrugs her shoulders, not knowing herself.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there. Just get the tickets.” Wynonna hangs up and immediately looks at Nicole with that face.

“Hey Nicole… can I—”

“No.” 

“Oh, come on!” Wynonna argues, “You didn’t even let me finish my sentence!”

“Because I know you.”

“If you know me so much then what was I going to ask you?”

“I heard ‘tickets’: so that means you want to go to some concert and judging from your favorite bands, one of them is going to be at The Palace Theatre. Banditos, from that puppy-eyed look you’re giving me right now.”

Wynonna’s jaw slacks and Waverly playfully claps, to which, Nicole does a slight bow.

“How’d you know that?”

“You told me in the car; I listen to everything you say.”

Wynonna scoffs, conceding defeat with a quiet dismal of  _ ew, don’t be gross.  _ Nicole rolls her eyes and gets up to help Mama in the kitchen, she returns with the bacon wrapped meatloaf in hand. Waverly’s mouth waters at the sight of the perfectly crisp strips of smoked bacon and the honey glaze dripping all over. Mama arrives with a tray of cheese stuffed hasselback sweet potatoes, fresh from the oven, and a large bowl of salad.

“Wyn, why don’t you grab the dessert?” Nicole suggests. “A good deed goes a long way.”

There’s a wink, and Wynonna shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly. Sucking her teeth for good measure, but there’s an extra skip in her step as she barrels into the kitchen, almost taking the doors with her.

In the meantime, Calamity Jane is heard pawing at the front door, and within seconds Willa’s home. The eldest Earp enters the dining room and immediately kisses Mama’s cheek and softly jabs at the back of Waverly’s head before taking a seat. Wynonna’s seat.

“Aw, no greeting for me?” Nicole pouts, almost smirking.

“Still, haven’t decided if I find you interesting yet.”

“Even after five years?”

Willa casually shrugs her shoulders, a smile teasing the corners of her lips.

Dinner continued with casual conversation about everyone’s day: Nicole at the station, Mama in Calgary, Willa hanging out at her boyfriend’s father’s garage, Wynonna forgetting to register for summer classes, Waverly finishing another year of high school. Then the conversation fragments into one of the random going-ons in town, and their fellow Purgatorians as a result.

Willa mentions that someone had stopped by the garage and wanted to speak with the owner, Mr. Svane, apparently the person was the owner of a franchise of repair shops in British Columbia and had thoughts of buying the old man out. Offering a substantial amount of money, that Mr. Svane, of course, outright refused after spending the entirety of his adult life building his shop from the ground up. But the man seemed determined, calling their decision “a little hasty”, and promising to return in two weeks once they thought about it.

The idea of companies and franchises buying up homegrown business wasn’t a new concept; two years ago, Champ’s father, Buck, was bought out by an American brand of grocery stores. It was the talk of the town for quite a while, people like August Hamilton and Olive Tatenhill called him a sellout, while others, namely Bunny Loblaw, said he was lucky someone wanted to buy his corner of town for a hundred-thousand dollars.

Small town appeal and its inevitable loss to big money corporations becomes the next topic of discussion, though quick and transitional, as Mama asks Nicole if Loblaw will be using the police force for another year of disingenuous social media marketing. It’s probable, but Nicole is lucky she won't be sitting in a drunk tank for another year thanks to Nedley.

“Oh, and why’s that hun?” Mama asks.

“Got the entire month of July off, Nedley said it was time I went on vacation.”

Mama is surprised. Unable to fully find the words to speak before settling on congratulating the alpha and wondering if she wouldn’t get bored being at home all the time. Nicole shakes her head, assuring the older omega that she’s incapable of not doing anything and will find something to occupy herself for the next few weeks.

“Trust me, I’ve got a few things in mind.” Nicole smirks, voice smooth. Mama smiles shyly as she tries to hide the sudden blush on her cheeks behind the rim of her wine glass.

Willa rolls her eyes, calling Nicole cheesy; Wynonna groans, feigning sickness; while Waverly focuses on pushing what little remained of her salad around her half-eaten potato.

Unfortunately, the subject of relationships becomes the next talking point with Wynonna continuing her teasing by swearing, on all the donuts and whiskey in the world, that she would never let herself be as whipped as Nicole. Technically, she said “pussywhipped”, but the ensuing sly waggle of Nicole’s brows, and the immature giggle—complete with snort—from Mama blindsides Waverly into momentary amnesia. And with no reprieve in sight once the tables are turned and now the topic of the girls’ romantic relationships (or lack thereof in her case) helms the dinner table.

Mama reminds Willa that she’d like to have her boyfriend, Bobo (yes, that’s his name), over for dinner, despite the alpha having put it off for well over a couple of months by now. Nicole simply tells her to tell him that he needs to keep himself out of trouble.

“I can’t keep letting him go with a warning, his file is starting to thicken.”

Willa tells them both that she can’t promise anything. Mama sighs, and Nicole gives her a warm look with a raised brow that the younger alpha, purposely decides to not answer.

Whereas, Mama, goes in full parent mode once she sets her sights on Wynonna. Nicole, much to Wynonna's dismay, isn’t far behind. They want Doc over for dinner, even though Wynonna vehemently tries to deny that she’s in an actual relationship with the cowboy-hat-wearing omega.

“We just want to get to know him a little more, that’s all.” Mama says.

“Bullshit, you just —”

“Language.”

“Ugh,  _ bullcrap _ , you guys just want to interrogate him.” Wynonna huffs, both adults now denying the accusation themselves.

“And what about you babygirl?” Mama asks, “Interested in anyone?”

“No, not really.” Waverly can feel her face warm at the spotlight.

“I hear Crofte’s got a crush on you.”

“Wynonna!”

“Perry? He’s a good kid; he’s smart, handsome. I hear he wants to be a doctor.” Mama says, brows jutting upwards in that listen to me, I know what I’m talking about kind of way. “Ain’t that right, Nicole?”

“Perry’s a nice kid, sweet, when I go to his parents’ restaurant for lunch, he’s always so helpful. I’ve seen him take the time to sit with Mrs. Carson, so she’d have someone to talk to.”

Timidly, and ashamed for being so, Waverly says “I’m not interested in dating,” which comes out as a mumble, and is thankfully swallowed up by Wynonna exclaiming loudly, “Sue Carson? I love her Boston cremes and apple friters!”

They finish off dinner with dessert before heading to their respective corners of the homestead for the rest of the night. Willa up in her room, tidying things up with a little background music; Nicole finally decides to take off her uniform, hopping into the adjoining bathroom in the master bedroom for a shower; Mama stays in the living room going over some work-related stuff, and Wynonna washes dishes in the kitchen, eager now more than ever with the promise of another slice of cake with extra scoops of ice cream hanging over her head.

Waverly spends the rest of her night in bed, looking at pictures and watching random videos that scroll across her Instagram feed. She likes a few things, mainly a two-minute cooking video, and a funny closeup photo of Chrissy’s dog Pierre, before she starts yawning and can barely keep her eyes open.

She puts the phone down and plugs it in to charge on the nightstand while she undresses and puts on a t-shirt and some shorts. Calamity Jane drops by, announcing her arrival with meow. The orange and yellow cat hops onto the bed and waits, tail wagging sluggishly back and forth for attention.

“Hey sweetie pie, you gonna sleep with me tonight?” Waverly coos, scratching at the soft white fur of CJ’s chin.

CJ responds with an ear twitch, and a purr, craning her neck for Waverly to scratch more.

“You know I don’t believe that, but thanks for lying.” Waverly whispers, knowing full well that the cat preferred to sleep in the living room and on the kitchen table at night. “But if you’re going to stay, just know that the right is my side, ‘kay?”

With the lights turned off and her desk cleaned and organized, Waverly settles into bed to sleep.

Hours of softly snoring and static dreams later, Waverly is awakened by the sudden urge to pee. And Calamity Jane pawing relentlessly at her door. Yawning, and rubbing some of the sleep out of her eyes, Waverly gets up and lets the moody cat out.

She then walks to the bathroom, CJ accompanying her only so far before slipping into Wynonna’s room.

Once done, washing her hands and drying them with one of the hand towels hanging from a rack beside the sink, she heads back to her room. The homestead is quiet save for the sound of the floorboards creaking beneath her feet and loud, open-mouthed snores coming from Wynonna’s room and—voices? That’s weird.

Nosily, she pokes her head into her sister’s room to see what the commotion is, thinking that she probably had Doc hiding in the closet again, but instead furrows her brows when she finds nothing. Leaving Wynonna’s room, she moves further down the hallway and notices light coming from downstairs. Waverly knows she ought to just go back to bed, but her interest is piqued and since curiosity hadn’t killed this cat yet, she stealthily tiptoes down the carpeted stairs for a better look.

In the living room, Mama is working. Tirelessly, going over some pages splayed across her lap, coffee table pushed closer to serve as a makeshift desk. It too is littered with pages and folders. Waverly can see how the crease above her mother’s furrowed brows deepens, eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as if staring down an indomitable opponent. She absently twirls a ballpoint pen around in her fingers, occasionally using the pad of her thumb to fiddle with the cap. A song Waverly does not recognize plays faintly, more as background noise than anything to be listened to.

Nothing out of the ordinary here. Her mother had always been a late worker. That is until Waverly hears glasses clinking, a loud bubble-like pop, and the easy hum of a certain, giddy alpha. Nicole appears from below walking out of the kitchen with a pair of wine glasses and a freshly opened bottle of peach flavored Moscato. Waverly ducks down against the staircase’s railing for cover, though Nicole is far too self-absorbed in bringing the bottle to the living room to even sense another presence with her. Whistling a tune the omega doesn’t recognize; light and airy, full of dance—sounds like a seventies or eighties song.

It’s been several minutes since Waverly started down this venture of eavesdropping, and normally, she would take this as a sign to leave things be. But for some inexplicable reason, she is pulled further down until she has left the safety of the stairs and is now hiding behind the wall, peeking from around the corner like the nosy, unruly child she was not raised to be. Nicole sits with Mama, sidling in closely with an elbow leaning on the back of the sofa while her cheek rests against her hand. She asks about the papers, about this and that, and while Mama answers, the conversation veers purposely into a different direction. Nicole’s voice lowering to a whisper as she keeps asking questions, her half-lidded eyes are blisteringly hungry. Almost ravenous.

Mama starts to catch on, the sly fingers ghosting over the bare skin of her calf becoming too hard to ignore.

“Nicole…” Mama asks, still trying (and failing) to focus on her papers. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Am I doing something?”

Mama used to laugh at Nicole’s flair: the early years of their marriage were rife with quiet forms of flattery, knowing gazes where they shared their secrets, and velvet caresses masquerading as forms of inconsequential touches. They would giggle and snicker at each other despite having even said a word to prompt it, creating their own made-up language as it were. But that was so long ago, all remnants of that time had ostensibly vanished without so much as a warning.

The silence between partners shouldn’t be empty.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or just sit there and play this game?” Mama says, dooming whatever semblance of lighthearted fun hung in the air.

Nicole’s cheek twitches at the annoyance in the omega’s words, voice stern and a little agitated. Had Waverly blinked, she would have missed it; part of her wishes she did. Sitting upright, Nicole rolls her shoulders back, instinctively set on the defensive and Mama doesn’t notice. She never does. 

“I would never play games, you know that.” Nicole replies softly and Mama looks at her then, head tilted to the side, blue eyes warming up. But only for a second. The heat is dashed away, and she goes back to looking at her papers, this time crossing something out and grabbing her phone from armrest.

“The general election next year will be held on May 31st, we can go on vacation then.” Mama answers, lengthening the space between them. It’s never if we can do something, it’s always when can we do it. The no-man’s land of their conversations: like a debate where the goalpost is constantly moving, there’s never a definitive answer, just constant circles and talk of ifs.

Nicole doesn’t accept it. Instead, she gently takes the phone from the omega’s hands, and all her papers and folders strewn about the couch, and places them on the coffee table. Quieting Mama’s calls for protest with that puppy-dog-eyed look, complete with wiggling ears, sparking laughter.

“That seems a bit far,” Nicole looks down at their hands, coy, “Nedley’s given me July off, August too if I ask for it, we could go somewhere.”

“Baby, I have work.”

“Two weeks. All I’m asking for is two weeks.”

“I can’t, but I’m sure the girls would like to take a trip somewhere.”

“I want to go with you!”

Mama doesn’t respond. Waverly isn’t even sure if there is a way for her to do so. It is in this moment, this strange and worried little moment between them, that Waverly feels something start to gnaw at her chest. Something deep, something primal. They’re at an even height now and Mama squirms, pushing Nicole back.

The alpha settles on the other side of the couch, boxed in with her arms crossed and her legs folded. Mama sinks further into her own side; head down, hair falling over her face in a dark curtain, blocking what Waverly, despite her better judgement, wanted to see most of all. The remorse. The inevitable I’m sorry and I didn’t mean to snap at you, that always punctuates the next phase of their conversations.

Nicole tilts her head, steady. “I can remember how many times exactly we’ve done things together, be they going out to dinner, to the movies, going on vacation, visiting my parents, sex—God, Michelle, I shouldn’t be able to.”

“Do you always keep track of what we do?” Despite the words sounding flippant and combative, the gentle quality to the omega’s tone adds a sort of calm tenderness before the storm. “Because I’m not avoiding you if that’s what you think.”

Nicole cuts her eyes away, scoffing.

“I don’t hate the idea of us together.”

“It’s a little too late for you to hate the ‘idea’ of us,” Nicole sighs, she leans forward then, elbows resting on her thighs. “I honestly don’t know how many more times I can hear another explanation about work this, or work that.”

“Baby, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t know how many more times I can hear that too.”

“Things are going to change, I promise you. Trust me.” Mama is a little breathless in her swearing, lips upturning into what would be an infectious smile. But Nicole isn’t smiling.

Instead, Nicole buries her face in her hands for a long moment, before picking her head back and runs a palm down her face tightly. As if attempting to wake herself up from a long nap. The alpha stands, reaching for the wine bottle.

“Want anymore?” She asks, eyes fixed on the rim, fingers already grasped around the neck.

“Uh no, no thank you.” Mama responds, unable to help notice how quickly Nicole takes the bottle away.

“Goodnight, Nicole.”

“Night.” Nicole is already turning towards the living room entrance.

Immediately, Waverly pulls back around and presses herself into the hallway wall, hand covering her mouth as Nicole comes her way. Afraid that she had been seen or will be found.

“I love you.” Mama calls, and Nicole, who passes by Waverly taking a swig, oblivious to the younger omega’s existence, and already halfway down the hall and to the living room, responds with an even, emotionless:

“You too.”


	3. Act 1, Chapter 2

Waverly doesn’t dream. It sounds strange; humans, babies, cats and dogs—it’s well documented that all sentient beings capable of cognitive thought, no matter how simple or complex, can dream. And yet, Waverly is a part of a small percentage that finds themselves as the exception: she does dream, just not in the conventional sense. 

Her dreams are full of empty static and after considering the different pros and cons, she has learned over the years that her lack of colorful dreaming could very well be the product of being more left brained than right. And with it, she is able to get through what she calls  _ early morning drudgery _ easier than the rest. Able to shrug off sleep quickly while everyone else is still cocooned in the warmth of their beds. During the colder months, Waverly will take advantage of the thirty, sometimes forty minutes she had to herself on weekend mornings to exercise.

In the summer, the omega prefers to lie in bed just a little longer and savor the silence before the house wakes up. But, for some reason, everyone is already up and about when she opens her eyes. The smell of something fiercely delicious wafting up the stairs, underneath her door, and into her room. 

After she is showered, dressed and brushed her hair for the day ahead, Waverly heads out and is surprised by the sudden silence. And while she wonders where everyone is, she pauses at the top of the staircase, overcome with the need to look back and down the hall towards the master bedroom. 

Mama and Nicole’s room. 

Last night continues to weigh heavily on Waverly’s mind. With a sigh, she shakes her head and continues onward. Walking through the homestead and passing a casual glance over the family pictures hanging from either side of the long hallway that stretches from the front door to the back, she finds the patio door open. The telltale sound of familiar sisterly bickering leading her to the backyard, where she stops for a brief moment to peek at Nicole dutifully cooking and humming in the kitchen. 

Waverly steps into the summer sunshine, taking in her first morning breath of the crisp June-July air, freshly squeezed orange juice, and the spice of smoked bacon. The surrounding grassland encompassing Earp land stretching out as far as the eye can see towards the horizon’s blinding light, is a bright enlivened green. The wind whistles, the cicadas rattle; a hearty tune filling her ears against the reminder that was and is still the ringing hollow of Nicole’s empty love reply from last night. 

Her sisters greet her in their usual fashion: Wynonna greets her by way of gruff observation,  _ you look like something the cat chewed up and spit up; _ Willa, on the other hand, addresses her with a small eyebrow raise as she brings a cigarette to her lips and takes a drag. They’ve been here for a while, evident by the still clean plates with nary a crumb on them to be seen, and how quickly Wynonna dives in to eat as soon as she appears. They were waiting for her to join them.

Pulling herself closer to the table, Waverly takes note of the food under the summer sun; a buffet, the likes of which she hadn’t seen in forever. After an indecisive moment, unable to pick between starting with the eggs or the bacon, she begins breakfast by carving out a slice of bread from the loaf closest to her plate. Buttering it as she remarks on how today feels more like a Sunday than a Thursday. 

“Right? I should be in bed still, sleeping my ass off until noon.” Wynonna replies, building a thick nest of bacon on a slice of bread and then blanketing it all underneath a particularly large fried egg she had scoured through the bowl to find. Topping it all off with another slice, creating a sandwich even the most hardened stomachs would fail to digest. The amount of grease that collects at the bottom alone is enough to turn Waverly’s appetite if she wasn’t so hungry. 

Thankfully, Willa slaps the younger alpha’s hand away from the sausages, there is enough on her plate to stop a grown man’s heart three times over. 

“Is Mama already at work?” Waverly asks, eyeing the empty seat next to her. 

“Left fifteen minutes ago,” Willa says. 

“Oh.” That isn’t surprising. 

“Didn’t even bother to stay and eat.” Wynonna adds bitterly, both palms pressing down, over the other, on her mountain of a sandwich. 

Waverly scrunches up her nose. The lack of vegetables is truly horrifying. 

Nicole comes out of the kitchen then, and she too stops in the doorway to take in the view of the scenery before setting down a tray of cinnamon sticky buns fresh from the oven and a rolled-up newspaper from under her arm, greeting them with a hearty good morning. 

They respond in turn, voices still raspy with sleep. Yet, Nicole’s sounds so indistinguishably foreign, now that the omega knows her voice has the capability of changing. While Wynonna groans, sucking her teeth at Willa’s attempts to keep her from reaching for a sticky bun and possibly suffering an early death, Waverly focuses on Nicole more intently than ever. Looking for the same woman who bared her soul on the living room couch in the dark of the night and then reject so coldly as she had been rejected. 

Had this always been a thing? For Nicole to so effortlessly pretend that everything is alright when in fact it isn’t? 

The empty plate sitting beside her own, between them, complete with fork and knife, a glaring reminder. 

Waverly bites her lip.  _ How could I have been so blind?  _

“It’s a beautiful day, nothing but cloudless sunshine for the next few days.” 

Watching Nicole will become a new habit of Waverly’s, of this she is undeniably sure. 

“We should barbecue,” Wynonna suggests, wiping a crumb from the corner of her lips. “I’m this close to getting Doc to tell me the secret formula to his dad’s steak recipe.” 

“Later. You’re going to sign up for classes today, Willa will make sure of that; then, I want you home before sundown.” 

Wynonna grunts her acknowledgement before Nicole, serious, reminds her to verbalize. Which the younger alpha answers with an eyeroll and an audible yes, actualizing her agreement to do as told and be held to it. 

“Not that I don’t enjoy waking up to a smorgasbord of food, but can it not be done so early next time? It cuts into my eight hours of sleep.” Wynonna asks, munching around a strip of bacon. 

“She certainly needs every last one.” Willa teases, pouring herself some coffee. 

Wynonna sticks her tongue out at the older alpha, remnants of chewed up bread, bacon and yolk still visible. Willa, in all her dry sarcasm, threatens to snub her cigarette on it, setting up a back and forth between them that quickly dissolves into bickering. Such is custom in the Earp household, for a meal at the table cannot continue nor finish, if they didn’t argue over something for at least seven minutes. Wynonna looks to Nicole, as she always does, to be saved. But Nicole pretends she didn’t heat a thing, turning to Waverly after and roping the omega into her charade. Unable to help the impish smile on her lips, Waverly shakes her head and joins in. Leaving Wynonna to huff and stew in her chair, grumbling that they all sucked before shoving a forkful of egg into her mouth. 

Breakfast continues, settling into a comfortable silence amid the clinking of glass, the scraping of utensils across plates, and the quiet bickering between Wynonna and Willa as the latter places a handful of salad on the former’s plate to counteract the fat clogging her arteries. And while they argue of Willa’s true intentions, whether she actually cares or is just making sure the younger alpha will survive long enough to be a viable organ donor in the future, Waverly can’t help but take small glances at Nicole. 

The alpha sits at an angle, the Purgatory Gazette folded back in front of her as she occasionally sips from her mug. She reads the newspaper fixedly, making quiet grunts of interest as she flips from page to page, her brows jumping whenever she reads something of particular value. From Waverly’s left, Wynonna watches Nicole too, overcome with a fit of snickering she tries to hide behind her food and juice. Willa is amused by the sight as well, and it isn’t until the two share a look that Waverly understands what is so funny. 

Nicole, Sergeant Haught, the woman whose been called by many residents as a model police officer and one of the best acquired assets the sheriff’s department has ever had the honor of hiring in the past several years, is pouring over the town newspaper like some newbie still fresh off their arrival. Or a “noob” as Wynonna keeps muttering. 

“Svane and Son have a discount on winter tires?” Nicole murmurs a little loudly. “Bit too early for the seasonal specials.” 

Wynonna bursts out laughing and Nicole looks confused. “What? What I say?” 

“Having a discount on winter tires isn’t new, Haughtshot. That ad’s been there for years. Bobo’s dad doesn’t tell them to take it down ‘cause he’s lazy and doesn’t want to pay for another one.” Wynonna says, her face pink and a little breathless. 

“Oh, my bad.” Nicole shrugs her shoulders, her embarrassment a flash in the pan. She holds the Gazette up, with a slight, unassuming smile. “First time reading the paper.” 

And also, her last. 

“Do you know anything about Purgatory? I mean it’s not much but like, as a cop, shouldn’t you?” 

Nicole’s face goes blank. “Uh... You know what? You’re absolutely right, I don’t know a thing.” 

Waverly catches the downturn of the alpha’s honey-golden eyes, the brief burst of remembrance in her good-natured self-inflicted jab wanes into a self-deprecating realization. She knows next to nothing of the small town that welcomed her in as a young, springy, twenty-five-year-old with bright eyes and a brighter star. 

Waverly has the sudden urge to reach out and touch the dog tags hanging from the alpha’s neck. Hold them against her palm and run the pad of her thumb along their silver rounded edges, along its flat surface and over the engravings on either side. To know, more than anything else, what possessed her to come to Purgatory and stay after things changed. If they served as an anchor to keep her tethered to the ground, if she sought them out whenever she felt unsure and needed to be reminded of what they meant. What being in Purgatory meant. 

“I don’t know a goddamn thing.” Nicole shrugs her shoulders in a whoops! my bad kind of way, aided by a pearly white smile, all teeth and no wrinkles; she’s saving face. 

Waverly becomes anxious. She can see it now, the restless thoughts shuttering across the alpha’s mind, each one a hurtful slight. 

And for the first time today, Waverly speaks to Nicole, hooking her feet together under the table to stave off the breathless stutter building up in her throat: 

“I can show you around sometime.” 

“That’d be great. Thank you.” Nicole replies, curt and even. There’s barely a glance towards Waverly’s direction as she busies herself with splitting an egg in half and dipping the bread into the middle to soak up the spreading yolk. But it’s there—Waverly knows it is—hidden behind her lips is a tiny smile of relief. 

Waverly doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of breakfast. 

And when it was over, and everyone set out to finish up the last of what they needed to start the day, she hangs around. Aimlessly idling around her room, Waverly takes care to not draw attention to herself lest she wants her sisters to barge in and start asking questions. Instead, she waits. Sitting at her desk with her headphones on, she listens as Wynonna drags her feet upstairs to change her boots after deciding that brown leather won’t last too well in the heat, Willa begrudgingly waits at the bottom of the stairs barking at the younger alpha to hurry up, reminding her that she herself needed to get to work. 

When the coast is clear, she heads down the stairs to find Nicole busy washing whatever dishes didn’t fit in the dishwasher, and humming along to some song playing from her phone on the kitchen counter. 

Waverly takes a seat beside the island and Nicole, feeling her presence, turns around and gives her a small smile. 

“Any plans today, Waves?” 

She shakes her head. “Nope—” she pops the p at the end and cringes at how childish it sounded, “—I, uh, I’m just going to spend the day at home… chilling.” 

“Like a villain?”

Waverly laughs at the corny remark. 

Wynonna drops into the kitchen for a quick second to say that she’s found her sneakers finally, is leaving, and promises one more time that she’ll be back before sundown. They bid her goodbye, hearing Willa yelling from the front of the house that the car’s started and will leave her eating dust. The young alpha groans, running off to catch her ride. 

With them gone, they have the house all to themselves. Reminding the omega of how often she used to fight with her sisters, particularly Wynonna, for Nicole’s attention. Talking over each other, coveting that illustrious spot closest to the older alpha at the dinner table, the breakfast table, any table, and pushing the other way, one-upping each other in coming up with whatever is the most interesting talking point that will attract and hold Nicole’s attention the longest. 

And now that they’re alone, she has nothing to say. 

Waverly stares at her fingers, nervously twiddling her thumbs together while her ears twitch at every sound of eating and cooking utensils clinking against each other as they’re put on the dish rack to dry. She bites her bottom lip, gnawing the soft skin there with her teeth. 

This is why Wynonna always held Nicole’s attention; she’s more entertaining and eye-catching than Waverly ever could be.

After all these years, she still feels intimidated. 

“Hey, I’m heading down to Hento for some paint, want to come with?” Nicole asks, drying her hands with a paper towel. 

Play it cool, Earp... 

She scoffs, “Yeah, sure. I’ll come. Beats staying here all day.” 

“Great. Uh, could you bring your backpack too?” 

Waverly nods. 

Damn it!  _ How can I be this obvious?  _

The fifteen-minute drive to Hento Shopping Centre is nothing short of a quick and easy stroll up the highway. A hub of different retail stores surrounding a very large plaza made of paved stones. It even has a movie theatre that is very popular among shoppers.

Home Depot isn’t as packed and Nicole makes a comment on the lack of shoppers, in and out, no sweat, as she grabs an orange cart from the front and Waverly follows her inside. They pass through aisles full of drills, hammers, nails, lightbulbs and locks. Waverly casually skims over all the different items stacked on the shelves, momentarily swayed away by a couple of potted flowers near the gardening section. Only to be pulled back when Nicole is suddenly a lot farther ahead than she thought. 

Nicole moves determinedly; she looks like a regular customer this way, slipping through the maze of aisles and forgoing asking employees for help no matter how lost she seems. 

“Why do you want paint?” 

“I noticed a while back that, that blizzard we had in December did a number on the homestead’s exterior; the paint started changing color in some places. Peeling in others.” 

Waverly lets out a barely audible, “Oh.” 

“Plus, I think it’s time for something new—figured we can keep white for the accents, and choose a different, slightly darker color for everything else.” Nicole suggests. “Something that will match and withstand against the cold better.” 

Soon, they reach the paint department and there’s an extra kick in the alpha’s step after finding it without assistance. As well as a noticeable, but small, uptick of pride in her voice when she parks the cart in front of a wall of blue paint swatches, “I’m thinking of either Gulf Stream or Cornflower. What do you think?” 

“They’re nice.” She knows nothing of colors. To Waverly, there’s hardly a difference between the two besides one being lighter, almost grayish than the other. 

“Hmmm. Well we can’t leave without picking a color.” Nicole leans against the cart’s handlebar. “Check the reds? Probably something there.” 

Behind her, the wall of reds is daunting as it is numbing. From top to bottom, left to right, the wall is covered in swatches of various shades and ridiculous names—Stiletto Love, Intrigue, Pinkadelic, Juicy Details, All Dressed Up—Waverly is just about ready to pick a random color and call it a day, but no, she turns around to see Nicole still looking for the perfect shade of blue, going as far as flipping through a fan deck for more options. 

It’s for the homestead, she reminds herself. When has anyone else ever given as much thought to it other than Nicole? 

Not even Ward had bothered, before or after he moved out. And it was his birthright. 

The least Waverly can do is give it a harder try. 

Following the long rows of swatches and rattling off every name silently, after the third column she wonders if she’ll leave the store cross-eyed. 

Silk Sheets, Rose Sorbet, Mixed Fruit, Pink Eraser, Cheery. 

Who’s coming up with these names? Waverly blinks away the sudden dull strain out of her eyes. 

She risks a glance at Nicole, who stands on the other side of the narrow aisle staring at the whites, two blue swatches in her hands. 

Waverly will be the first to admit she always had a fascination with Nicole’s height; finding her stature, at a cool five-feet-ten-inches, a marvel to behold. Nicole’s limbs are long—impossibly, endlessly long. Surprising the omega whenever they’re put to use: Nicole can move from one room to the other in short strides, able to leap over Curtis’ strawberry bushes in a single bound, it takes very minimal effort for her to jump into the air and spike a volleyball from the backline. 

Very rarely does Nicole ever have to stand on her tiptoes. But when she does, and is wearing a form fitting shirt, the bottom hem rises just the tiniest bit, revealing a sliver of skin. Pale, paler than the rest of her, unseen and untouched by any tanning sun or blemish. Now that the omega is older, and a little more knowledgeable, and Nicole stretches her spine upward to reach a white swatch from far above, shirt riding high, she freezes. 

Lips now chapped, her mouth dries. Her chest tightens; first with this strange feeling of blushing heat; and second, in what can only be described as agony when Nicole finally achieves what she wanted and hastily pulls her shirt down. 

The loss of skin snaps Waverly out of her trance. Clearing her throat, and mistakenly drawing Nicole’s attention towards her, she all but jumps out of her skin at the sudden pair of eyes on her person. 

“Summer just started, why do you want to jump into doing home improvements so early?” She asks quickly. 

Nothing. 

The omega continues in a rush to not let it fester. “Thought maybe you’d like to take it easy first.” 

Nicole shrugs. “It keeps me occupied; I like having stuff to do.” 

Another long minute. 

“Were you always like this?” She pleads, on the way to apologizing for even speaking. 

“Kind of? I mean, I was a bit of a wild child as a kid.” Nicole explains, a bit shyly. “Couldn’t stick to one thing even if my life depended on it.” 

She was all over the place, and while Nicole’s parents had no problem paying for everything and anything their daughter wanted, they weren’t too fond of her unbridled, high-spirited ways. The constant pushing of her limits and impulsivity gave her parents cause for concern. 

School was no different. 

As a student, she was, by her own admission, the worst. A star athlete, she played two sports all throughout her four years, captained for one during her senior year. She also won homecoming queen at prom and shared the spotlight dance with her girlfriend, who also won. Graduated on the honor roll and landing a spot on the coveted dean’s list that was only for a select few. Was voted most likely to succeed. 

"What about valedictorian?” 

The alpha grins impishly, “Now that would’ve been overkill.” 

Waverly lets out a breath. “Sounds like you were the best at everything, you would’ve done great in Purgatory; I can tell you that.” 

Waverly imagines Nicole as a high schooler: popular and cool, Purgatory’s number one athlete. She would be the envy of all the other students, strolling through the hallways with this air of controlled cockiness that fits her as easily as the shirt on her back. Other alphas would hate her, betas would admire her, omegas would drool over her. A devastating heartbreaker. She can picture the droves of teenage girls swooning over her fiery auburn hair and honey-golden eyes. 

And through it all, they would be friends. Waverly and Nicole. 

Nicole asks if she’s found a good shade of red and Waverly spins back to the wall of swatches and speedily reads through another column: Firecracker, Musical Mist, Arizona Sunrise, Cream Rose, Kashmir Pink. 

She pulls away a swatch called Flirt Alert, deciding it to be the one shade closest to a reddish color compared to the others. Quickly turning away to hide the awkward blush forming on her face, she hands it to Nicole who takes it with a ginger  _ I like it! _ Saying that it will match perfectly with the shades of white she picked for the trim. 

Nicole looks around for an employee then, catching sight of an elderly gentleman with balding white hair and a heavy toolbelt around his waist. She calls for him with a polite  _ excuse me, sir! _ but is met with no response as the man can barely hear over the sound of the squeaky cart he wheels against a rack of paintbrushes. Sadly, he isn’t all that helpful, his expertise belonging to the retail side of things. He laments being unable to assist, but calls for a nearby employee who can. 

A woman. A young woman. With an incredibly tight ponytail and doe-like eyes. She is attractive, somewhere between her mid-to-late twenties, probably a college student or recent graduate, and fills out the burly and unappealing orange apron in a way Waverly never thought possible.

She answers a lot of Nicole’s questions with an insufferable fervor, going as far as citing all the contracting services the store has to offer and the discounts for each one; a hasty, yet unbelievably obvious attempt at prolonging their conversation. 

“We have many capable contractors on-call, myself included.” She cocks a hip, running her eyes over Nicole with an appreciative glance. 

Nicole assures that it won’t be necessary and Waverly wants to vomit. 

It doesn’t help that Nicole takes the moment to very quickly explain what background knowledge she has in home improvement, thanks to her grandfather instilling to all his grandchildren the wonders of self-reliance and the dangers of getting overcharged for shotty work. This ultimately impresses the woman who then grins like a cat at the canary she’s ensnared in her grasp. She hands them a card with the store’s number should she want to hire one.

Namely her. Ugh.

For all the years Waverly has known Nicole, she’s never once seen the alpha gesticulate as much as she is now. Every sentence is marked with some motion of her hands. After a while they become almost frantic, but with enough persistence, Nicole admits defeat and accepts the card, saying that she’ll give it a call sometime in the near future. Far too gracious and polite to say otherwise outright. They both know she won’t. The ring around her finger is too pronounced a sign that to do so would be like a slap in the face knowing the woman’s intentions.

And with what Waverly now knows, that slap would hit Nicole twice as hard.

Yet, that doesn’t stop the employee from salivating at the thought. She doesn't care that she’s trying and failing to hit on a married woman. Waverly’s stomach turns at the shamelessness. 

She fills their shopping cart with several gallons of the requested paint and guides them to checkout where she handles all transactions and continues trying to worm her way into getting her desired response. 

They leave the store immediately. Nicole wheels the cart back to the Camaro, stopping only once to throw her receipt into a trash can. After everything is loaded into the trunk, Waverly grabs the shopping cart before Nicole can protest and takes it back to where they found it. And when Nicole isn’t looking, distracted by a phone call, Waverly pulls out her own as cover and peeks at the trash can. Lying on a mountain of garbage, she makes out the scribblings of a name and phone number in bright red ink beneath the glaring sun. 

Her hands itch at the desire to grab the receipt and stuff it into her pocket. To do what with it, she doesn’t know. Fortunately, a good Samaritan passes by in front of her. Throwing away a half empty can of soda; wetting, and effectively destroying the receipt to near inexistence. 

Walking back, she catches Nicole’s gaze and a heavy weight settles upon her chest. A smile and an awkward wave of the hand that is somewhere between  _ hey _ and  _ come on _ , pushes into her gut like a hard blow. Forcing her lips into mirroring a smile before she could stop them. 

How can she be this charming? Is this what everyone else feels when she looks at them? 

It’s unnatural for someone to be so magnetic, so irresistible. 

Downright terrifying. 

Evoking this incessant, almost primal need to capture and retain her attention for as long as possible. To be the object of her sole focus. Jesus, Waverly shivers.  _ Like something out of a horror movie.  _

It’s that woman’s fault. For ruining what would have been an otherwise nice trip to the store with Nicole; they were in the process of shortening the divide between them and her interruption only served to deepen it. Waverly can’t pick up from where they left off, that would make her look dull and uninspired. 

Nicole makes note of the time, quarter to noon, and asks if she’d like to get something to eat. 

Waverly nods. 

Like Home Depot, the rest of the stores in the shopping centre are relatively empty, giving them time and freedom to browse, buy, and eat from wherever. They walk around, taking in the many things displayed in the windows of various stores, each making comments on what they see sound like they’re shouting into an empty void for how unresponsive they react to the one another. 

Soon, they stumble upon a quaint little food kiosk in another part of plaza. 

“Wanna eat here?” 

“Sure.” 

They greet the two workers behind the counter with a brief hello as they skim through the overhead menu. They settle on two bottles of soda and pretzels, and again, Nicole insists on paying for everything. Which Waverly doesn’t mind, too fixated on the worker, a young man barely a day over twenty, giving the alpha a onceover as he responds in kind when Nicole drops four dollars and some change into the tip jar. 

As they wait for their pretzels to cook, Waverly wishes for the nerve to initiate another conversation. Racking her head for something of interest. Anything really, to get them started. And when the other worker, and older man, probably the owner of the kiosk, begins wiping down the counter with a rag drenched in a powerful ammonia solution, they step away. 

And for all the rotten luck in the world, Nicole’s phone rings. 

She answers, and from behind, Waverly quietly berates herself for the missed opportunity. But is also relieved for the extra time. 

The phone call is short, yet, there is a slight friendliness to it that sparks intrigue. Recalling the few times she's heard Nicole speak to her mother over the phone these past few years, Waverly is surprised at her lack of non-interest. More so when Nicole moves several steps away to talk more. Once done, Nicole pockets her phone, returns, and apologizes. 

An old friend had called to say hello. 

“Who?” 

“Just a friend.” 

A myriad of thoughts shutter around her brain like a pack of ravenous centipedes. Thankfully, the sunglasses hide her distress and she is able to calm herself beneath the mask with ease. To think that without them, she’d be an absolute mess.

Nicole must feel the same way. Must be hard putting on a brave face all the time and to act like nothing wrong. 

They take a seat at a nearby table where Waverly opens her backpack and hands Nicole her laptop, careful to not let it slip out of grasp and fall, whereas she flips open Antony and continues her reading from yesterday. 

They sit in silence for the most part. 

Nicole types away at her laptop, something to do with work most likely. So focused, the lack of brief pauses within her endless clicking of keys is both surprising and borderline insane. Waverly likes to think of herself as a fast typer, a focused one who can write long strings of sentences before stopping or getting distracted by something else. But Nicole is something else. 

Shame the laptop isn’t smaller, Waverly would love to watch Nicole work. To see what those fingers can—wait, no.  _ No. _ That came out wrong. 

Shaking her head, Waverly turns back to her book. But as much as she wants to focus and get past reading Cleopatra and Enobarbus’ snarky exchange for the umpteenth time, her attention keeps shifting back to the alpha sitting across from her. 

Biting her lip, Waverly shifts in her seat and holds the book up close to her face. Off the edge of the pages, Nicole is leaning back against her chair, she looks relaxed. Turning her head, Waverly catches sight of the young kiosk worker staring at Nicole. 

A rush of heat rises underneath the collar of her shirt, and while Waverly hooks one foot behind the other to stave off the sudden urge to throw her backpack in display of defiance and preservation, realization hits. 

Unlike the woman from earlier who blatantly lusted after the alpha without remorse, the kiosk worker had just been daydreaming in Nicole’s general direction. Damn it. 

Nicole clears her throat then, closing the laptop and sitting up in her chair. “So, what does one do in Purgatory during the summer?” 

Waverly shrugs. “Nothing. Wait for summer to end.” 

“What does one do in winter, then?” 

Waverly uncaps her Coca-Cola bottle, takes a long swill, and smacks her lips when she’s finished. Nicole’s mouth curves into a grin. “Let me guess: wait for summer to come, right?” 

Waverly purses her lips, hiding the smile itching to cross her face. She likes having her mind read. 

“In the winter it gets really dark and gray. Playing in the snow is fun at first, but after a while it gets boring so we just stay inside.” 

“And what do you do then, lay under the covers and drink hot chocolate all day?” 

She’s teasing. Waverly can’t contain her smile anymore. Nicole understands and says nothing more, they laugh. 

The owner calls for them to pick up their pretzels, thanking them for waiting and their patronage. Nicole picks them up, and thanks him. 

Nicole moves to return but stops halfway. Forgetting the condiments. Waverly, who always preferred a plain old pretzel, finding the light dusting of salt to be enough, waves a hand, saying: “I’ll have whatever you’re having.” Much to her chagrin when Nicole hands back her pretzel with a fairly over exaggerated coating of spicy mustard cheese. 

The taste sits weirdly on her tongue, but it isn’t enough to turn the whole endeavor into a hassle.  _ If Wynonna can suddenly develop a liking to tiger tail ice cream, I can like spicy mustard cheese.  _

With her sunglasses still on, Nicole asks what Waverly herself did during summer vacation. Waverly, licking her lips, replies with a list: play a few rounds of tennis at the rec center with Chrissy; swim, be it as the lake or Gus and Curtis’ backyard pool; go to the movies; have movie night at the homestead; ride her bike; strum her guitar; transcribe music; reread some of her favorites if she there wasn’t something more contemporary to catch her eye. 

“I also jog sometimes.” 

“Jog?” Nicole was an avid runner when she first moved to Purgatory. The early months of the marriage saw her going for runs early in the morning before sunrise. Always following a specific path that led to their mailbox down the road and further. Sadly, she stopped when a thunderstorm one spring split a nearby tree from its trunk and fell onto the path, the subsequent nights of heavy rainfall turned the area into a muddy slush pile. By the time it got cleared out her workload at the station tripled and she didn’t have the time anymore to go for a jog down to the mailbox and back. 

“I know a path; I could show you.” Waverly suggests, biting the inside of her cheek. “If you want.” 

“Later, maybe.” 

The car ride home isn’t as quiet as before, the inclusion of the radio playing at a comfortably low volume to serve as background noise is a welcome addition that signals progress. It was all eighties and nineties music, with Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” taking up much of the airplay every fifth or sixth song. Maybe eventually Waverly will be able to ask if she can hook up her phone and play some of her own music, and evoke that slow, but casual realization on the alpha’s face when she realizes they have much of the same taste in music. That they shared many of the same interests and if not, then the omega’s would have no qualms laying alongside hers. 

Hours later, when Waverly makes iced tea for Nicole and Wynonna, who have been hard at work cleaning the out the gutters and listening to Wynonna recount her appointment at the academic advisement, she gets a little bold, a little willful, when Mama arrives and asks how their day was. 

Granted Wynonna is quicker and continues her day at Ghost River, but she finishes up quickly, becoming distracted when she scratches her forehead, forgetting that her gloves are dirty. When Waverly gets her turn, she is too slow to reel in her enthusiasm and a second pair of eyes look down on her from above, forcing her to strand straighter.

“It was fine, just fine.”

Mama finds her flustering cute, lamenting not having been there. Sparking an apology for missing out on breakfast, citing work—nothing new there—as the reason. Nicole makes her way down the ladder; she takes off her gloves and accepts the apology with a shrug of her shoulders. 

“Nah, don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s all water under the bridge.”

“Maybe next time?”

“Next time.”

Mama presses a kiss to Nicole’s cheek, before leaving to change clothes upstairs. Nicole, without addressing Waverly, decides to help her with the iced tea. Pulling three glasses down from the cupboard while the omega poured three cups of powder into a large pitcher filled with water. Nicole opens the freezer and breaks open a tray of ice, filling each glass with three cubes. When Waverly finally feels like she’s been given permission to look up at the alpha, there is a mixture of gratitude and solemnity.

Waverly fills up the cups and is ready to deliver them outside where Wynonna is still at the top of her ladder groaning about “dirt” and “gunk” and “I’ll never live in a house again”.

Yet, Nicole doesn’t move. Motionless. Waiting.

While her honey-golden eyes are silent, her brows shift upwards ever so slightly; pleadingly.

Waverly gives a slight smile, zipping her lips and throwing away the key.  _ Your secret is safe with me. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My least favorite chapter I've ever written (so far), had to rewrite the entire thing 4 times and I'm still not completely happy with it. Oh well. Hope you guys enjoyed it.


	4. Act 1, Chapter 3

With her temple leaning against the window, Waverly stares at the empty wheat fields as the Camaro drove along the road. Amidst the large silos and barns, every few kilometers she would spot a farm animal or two. Making a game of it, she attributes points for every single one she counts, weighing what each is worth depending on their size. And at the end, tired of her lonesome game and counting her fifteenth cow, she leans back to watch the clouds through the sunroof. Occasionally a cloud will pass by with enough of an irregular shape that she can project a specific one onto it. Most are wisps, imitating splotches of white against a blue canvas than anything worth transforming, though, she is thankful for the distraction. 

With Canada Day fast approaching, it is only natural that the day be spent at Gus and Curtis’ house. 

Situated on the other side of town, on the tail end of the suburbs, near what is commonly known as “the farmlands”, the beta pair live in a modest home. Smaller than the homestead, both in size and land, but large enough to house the entire family and then some without want for space. Like many others homes in Purgatory, it was built during the early 1800s and has gone through several iterations of itself since then. 

Waverly shivers at the breeze filtering through Wynonna’s barely open window. There had almost gone to battle over it— _ almost _ being the operative word as Wynonna wanted to leave it fully open, citing that the Camaro gets too hot with it up; Waverly arguing the opposite, her teeth beginning to chatter; and neither of them daring to take it any further and cause a scene in front of Nicole. Said alpha, always having to be the tie-breaker whenever the Earp Sisters were too stubborn to compromise on their own, left them with little choice but to do as she says. The window staying open just a crack, enough for a breeze, but not enough for Waverly to freeze to death in the backseat. 

Wynonna sits in the passenger seat, after shooting out of the homestead yelling shotgun, playing some game on her phone. A multiplayer online battle arena game, or “moba” for short, as she said. The extent of Waverly’s knowledge in this field extends as far as fighting and rpg games, the latter of two being her bread and butter, and the former as a result of having been born and raised in a house with older alpha sisters constantly competing with each other. The game Wynonna plays requires teamwork, and the thought of having to suffer through Wynonna’s horrible intensity has barred the omega from ever asking to play. 

Nicole doesn’t understand the game either. As an alpha herself, victory is at the cornerstone of her evolutionary existence. And while they all know Wynonna would curb her desire to win with a little more patience should Nicole ask to play and in turn needing to be taught how to play, Nicole isn’t fond enough of the team-centric aspect to try. Much to everyone’s relief. And dismay, whenever it’s time to play Super Mario Party during game night. 

Two competitive alphas is somewhat tolerable, as long as they sit on opposite ends of the room, but  _ three? _ Absolutely nightmarish. 

Competitiveness aside, Waverly does envy Wynonna. After all, despite the progress she has made in her relationship with Nicole, there is still this unshakeable air of awkwardness between them. It was bearable before when it was simply the result of having never spoken more than a few words to each other outside of the usual familial situations that brought them together. Thinking back on it, those were simpler times. Now, the aforementioned awkwardness has turned into a palpable tension, spreading between them so thickly, you can cut it with a knife. Biting the inside of her cheek, Waverly scratches the back of her hand; it wasn’t supposed to be this way. This summer hadn’t promised much of anything upon its arrival, but there was still hope. 

Hope that things would be a little better than last year. Hope that with Nicole’s month-long vacation, they could hang out and get to know each other a little better. Saving the omega from another banal summer vacation. 

But Waverly knows more now. More than she ever expected to. 

She has seen a side of Nicole very few have ever witnessed. Waverly puts it on good authority that no one in Purgatory has ever had as far as a glimpse of what she saw at Hento. How Nicole fended off the paint girl’s advances with an acute politeness, executed so painfully familiar, it’s impossible to think the alpha had never done that before. Thinking about that woman makes Waverly’s skin crawl. Yes, she was conventionally attractive in the way that would find the most red-blooded individual hard pressed to deny her beauty; but the shamelessness? The sheer audacity to virtually beg and mewl for Nicole’s continued attention was disgusting. 

Nicole flashed her hands, particularly her wedding ring, enough times that even a blind woman would have gotten the hint. Yet, a thought persists, long after yesterday’s events. What if she said yes? 

What if Nicole gave in? She easily could have used her authoritative police voice to drive home the fact that it was never going to happen between them. But she didn’t, and the vomit-inducing moment lasted longer than either of them wanted. She accepted the receipt with the woman’s phone number when she could have asked for another. All in front of Waverly no less, her wife’s daughter—the youngest one at that! 

It’s the hope, Waverly thinks, she left that woman with a sliver of hope. As false as it was. 

Part of Waverly regrets not having made her presence more known, be it through clearing her throat, crossing her arms over her chest and squaring her shoulders, or simply speaking. Reminding them she existed and had a purpose for being at Nicole’s side. 

Yet, there was another part of her that refused to do anything. This sickly, bitter, green-eyed, much stronger side of her, took over. Spouting nonsense in the back of her head until the absurdity in its words became a series of valid questions. 

What if you weren’t there? Why didn’t she ask for another receipt after the woman wrote her number down in front of her? In front of you? 

She lives in an entire world separate from you, who’s to say she hadn't thought about cutting you out? The family? 

Waverly runs a hand down her face and sighs. Nicole catches her faraway gaze through the rearview mirror. “You alright back there?” She asks, concern lacing that honey-dripped voice of hers, though the slightly rough quality to it does not go unnoticed. 

Waverly nods, assuring her that everything is alright, and whatever doubts laid awake in the alpha’s mind can be put to rest. Nicole takes her eyes away from the mirror, returning to the long stretch of road before them. Waverly removes her eyes as well, looking to the windows at the passing pastures, though, she feels Nicole lob a final glance her way. 

She doesn’t respond to this one; instead focusing hard on the number of silos and tractors they come across so as to avoid giving attention to the heat glaring into the side of her head. Eventually it dissipates, finally satisfied with itself and Waverly can breathe a little easier. 

When they arrive at Gus and Curtis’ house, Gus is already in the front tending to her flowerbed in front of the porch. She squints at them beneath her sunhat, waving hello with a trowel in hand. Waverly and Wynonna head on up to give Gus a kiss on the cheek. Nicole strides up behind them then, and Gus whistles at her immense height. ”Who needs a tree for shade when you’re here?" 

Nicole blushes. “I’m not that tall.” 

“Dear, you’re taller than everyone right now.” 

They ask about the flowerbed, home to Gus’ precious flowers. 

For most of Waverly’s life, Gus was never interested in having a flower garden; that was more a Curtis-thing, him having transformed their backyard into a fruit and vegetable garden. But after an electrical fire ripped through the flower shop on Main, Mrs. Drubman, the florist and Gus’ friend, needed to rehome what few flowers survived. For a friend in need, Gus accepted. To this day, she continues to add more and more to her collection. 

Each flower is named after a famous Canadian and addresses them by name. She had just finished plotting Mark Weir, a purple carnation, and Terry Fox, a bright yellow daylily she had been waiting on for months. The flowers are exceptionally beautiful, and there is still more to be planted as a batch of new, never before seen, pink dahlias sat beside them, price stickers still on their pots. 

“Who are those named after?” Waverly asks. 

“Bret, Owen, Jim, Davey Boy—” 

“No way!” Wynonna exclaims. “You’re adding the Hart Foundation?” 

“Of course, the bed wouldn’t be complete without them. All I need is a blue star and I’ll be done; I’m naming it after Gretzky.” 

“Gretzky? What about Messier?” 

“Messier was never that good of a player.” 

Aghast, Wynonna can’t believe it, the hand to her chest is real as it is comical. She takes a seat on the porch steps and vaults headlong into what will soon become a heated discussion over who was the better hockey player. Her knowledge from growing up watching old tapes Ward and Gus recorded back in their heyday, against Gus’ blade sharp memory from having lived it, is bound to be a match for the ages. But it’s one Waverly doesn’t care to see, at least not this time anyway. She’ll catch the Thanksgiving version where they’ll argue over who was the better technical wrestler, Bret Hart or Owen Hart, while simultaneously berating Ward and calling him a traitor to his country for liking Shawn Michaels. 

As she heads inside, Nicole is right behind her, not wanting to stick around and see the mudslinging herself. For one, the alpha’s knowledge of hockey is extremely limited based on never having that much of an extended interest in the sport beyond occasionally watching the Stanley Cup, and two, they know that even with her narrowed expertise, she’s a casual New York Rangers fan. Staying would serve to paint a target on her back and be labeled a traitor as well. 

Inside, the house is cozy, with that well-lived in, happy family type of feel. 

Years ago, during summer vacations, meals around the dining room table at the homestead were always frequented by two or three other guests. Usually it was just Gus and Curtis, looking to spend time with the family. But sometimes others, like neighbors, friends, and colleagues, would drop on by, whether invited or not. They’d bring gifts in the form of whiskey and bourbon, baskets full of fruits and vegetables cultivated from their gardens, and desserts like homemade blueberry pie, butter tart, and Nanaimo bars. It made mealtime fun growing up. Waverly remembers the game she and her sisters used to play where they would guess who their guest would be and what they would bring. Curtis especially enjoyed it, always eager to bring along his prized collection of strawberries and show off to their green-thumbed guests. The omega can’t remember how many times breakfast has been taken over with his in-depth conversations with Juan Carlo, the resident pastor, on the intricacies of growing fruits as well as the dangers of winter, and the near impossible task of growing them indoors. They made it sound like a science, and an art form. 

And while being entertained by a long list of guests made for a good time, it wasn’t the only thing that made summer a much looked forward to season. The rest of the year saw the usual, boring tedium of school and work, with the occasional highpoint here and there every time something important happened. The summer months meant more than just a break in the monotony, it meant that Mama and Ward would be home more. 

Mama, who is often reserved and somewhat shy in private, loved nothing more than to have some intelligent conversation over food and drinks with whatever resident self-proclaimed experts Purgatory had to offer. Because of her work as a campaign manager, more often than not, a resident, usually someone of the older generation, would want to lock horns and discuss politics. Waverly learned very early on as a little girl, that politics was a topic that was both polarizing as it was eye-opening. To this day she remembers how Bunny Loblaw left the homestead one evening, red in the face, after arriving for a get-together in the backyard (something she wasn’t invited to), because of a heated discussion over taxes and social programs. Mama called Loblaw’s brand of conservatism “shallow and pedantic”, and the adults of the family were subsequently banned from the Poker Spectacular that year. 

Ward on the other hand, being more of an extrovert, enjoyed hosting what he called a “cop’s night out” at the homestead. After a long shift, he’d spend hours knocking back drinks “with the fellas” in the patio outside the kitchen, especially when there was a sporting event that couldn’t be missed. Though, to them, and the rest of Purgatory, all sporting events are can’t miss. Many of these get-togethers included drinking whiskey and smoking cigars; for a while, every Thursday night saw him and his fellow officers and sometimes other residents, like Robert Mallick and Stevie (and sometimes Nedley), hanging out at the homestead. They used to hold their not-so-impromptu parties in Ward’s mancave, which became the den after the divorce, and then eventually Nicole and Mama’s home office space, but after several complaints from Mama about them turning it and the house into a cigar lounge, they moved outside. As long as everyone brought their own ashtrays and didn’t set the grass on fire. Hearing about these nights as a kid the next morning was akin to hearing someone talk reverently about a secret underground society; fascinating Waverly and her sisters. Ward even promised that as soon as they were old enough to legally drink and smoke, he’d bring them in. 

The Earps have never been a stereotypical family; emulating those cookie cutter portrayals seen on television is next to impossible if the already picture-perfect image wasn’t distorted some way in their favor. Waverly has given it some thought of what life would be like had they been like the Brady Bunch, or the Cosby Family, her imagination running wild at the image of everyone wearing blowouts and sweaters—certainly made for good daydream fodder. Nevertheless, even if the happy memories she has of Mama and Ward are confined to eating as a family around mealtime, hanging out at home, and going to festivals, she still cherishes them for what they are. 

And then the divorce changed everything. 

It came as no surprise when Gus and Curtis had to sit Waverly and her sisters down in the living room to explain what their parents divorcing would mean for them. Harping extensively on the fact that it wasn’t their fault, in a bid to keep them from internalizing Mama and Ward’s failed marriage as a byproduct of their shortcomings. Spending a week at their house to continue that reinforcement, despite it being unnecessary. The Earp Sisters were well aware of how it all came about. Willa, being the eldest, saw it coming a mile away and was only upset it didn’t happen sooner; Wynonna was elated, having already been pulling away from their parents as a whole, as long as she didn’t have to be separated from her sisters and move away from Gus and Curtis with either one of them; and Waverly, well, as the youngest, she came to be during a time when the marriage was already on its last legs, so the divorce didn’t affect her nearly as hard. Growing up, she first came to call Ward by his name rather than “dad” or ”daddy". 

After the divorce had been finalized things got progressively worse. There was no custody battle, both parents having witnessed how nasty these things can get many times in their careers. They thought better and agreed that everything regarding their children would be settled out of court. 

Instead of ripping them from their home to constantly ping pong between one place and the other, Ward moved out. The deed to the homestead was left unchanged, the homestead had been in the Earp Family for generations long before any Gibsons landed in Purgatory; removing him definitely would have evoked a lawsuit, this Ward was always adamant about. Mama’s name was added to the deed to ensure that if Ward was unable to claim insurance due to an untimely death or an incapacitating illness in the event of a disaster, she’d be able to instead. 

Staying in the homestead did come with a catch though: their lawyers agreed upon nullifying any spousal support, he would pay a percentage of the homestead’s property tax, both of their assets were equally halved based on who owned what. It was also forbidden to bar him from visiting and spending time with the girls. Which proved hollow since neither him, nor Mama, were around much afterwards. 

It wasn’t until six years later that a redhaired alpha stepped into their lives and turned their entire world upside down.

Funny, thinking back on it, Nicole’s insistence on everyone spending quality time together was as much for herself as it was for the girls. She made TV sitcom clichés like game night, a permanent staple of family living. Wynonna and Willa laughed at the idea, at first. They found it unrealistic, and Nicole too much of a tryhard. Waverly had been skeptical too. But Nicole, in all her splendor, somehow made it work. 

Waverly remembers that moment, that exact moment of realization when it dawns on her and her sisters, that Nicole was indeed real. She was real, and her love and compassion for them was—and still is—a separate entity all on its own, instead of a small thread branching outward from her feelings for Mama. 

And in some way, Gus and Curtis knew it too. 

Letting Waverly go from a bone crushing hug, Curtis pulls Nicole in for one as well. Squeezing tightly and lifting the alpha off the ground—something he’s never done with Ward, or Mama—before putting her back down and releasing her. Nicole feigns hurt and rubs her arms, though there is a high probability she’ll be sporting a bruise later. Curtis laughs. 

He leads them past the pool, eager to give them a tour of his garden, allotting extra time to his prized strawberry bushes. The shrubs are covered in vibrant green leaves wet from the morning dew, every inch of them is bursting to the brim with red strawberries ready for the picking. A large harvesting basket is set off to the side half, already half full with the tasty looking berries. 

Curtis plucks two and offers them each one, “Taste them, they’re absolutely to die for.” 

Waverly pops the berry into her mouth the way she would a piece of popcorn. To Curtis’ credit, he isn’t wrong; the taste, while hiding a small twinge of budding acidity, is delightfully sweet. The strawberries are at the peak of their lifespan. Whatever pie he bakes with them will make him a shoe-in for first place, there’s no way the judges wouldn’t vote in his favor, they have to be fools not to. And with how many he has at his disposal, Curtis is free to perfect his award-winning pie from now until the fair. 

Gladdened by their approval, he urges them to eat as many as they want. Doing so will certainly help in lightening the load. Counting all the bushes that have yet to be picked clean, and the few that are, not including the pounds of strawberries he’ll use in the kitchen, Waverly totals it to Gus and Curtis having months' worth of strawberries. Two at the very least, knowing Gus won’t let them leave today without hauling a bag of their own. 

“Now, I’ve heard word that some of my competition has really stepped up their game this year,” Curtis says, motioning them towards the peach trees, “Nancy from the station is bringing pecan pie, you already know Sue Carson is bringing her signature apple fritters, even Lonnie has thrown his hat into the race and is baking a chocolate mudpie.” 

“Lonnie?” Nicole crouches down to look a couple of seedlings nestled together in a support tray. “I didn’t know he was joining the competition this year.” 

“Apparently Lonstein and several others from the station have combined forces in a joint effort.” 

Nicole doesn’t respond. She stands up, knees cracking, and stretches her back. “Well, the more the merrier.” 

“That’s what I thought, until yesterday! See, I was at the antique store, looking to sell that old grandfather clock sitting up in the attic, me and Mr. Willoughby ere having a nice chat while daughter, Poppy, assessed the clock’s value, when all of a sudden, as soon as I tell him I’m making rhubarb pie, Olive Tatenhill rushes out of the store!” 

“So, what? You don’t think she stole your idea, do you?” 

“Of course, I do! Tatenhill has always been a sneaky bitch, she tried stealing Sue’s Boston crème pie recipe two years back. Thankfully Ward was on the panel and gave her a low rating, knocking her out of the top five.” 

“Ward was a judge?” Nicole’s never heard this story, and Curtis is all too happy to tell it. 

Ms. Tatenhill had an ego on her that year, so sure that she would win the competition, she spouted off to the rest of the contestants days prior, claiming that she had it in the bag. When it was revealed, just an hour before judging, that she had baked a Boston crème pie, naturally, everyone was shocked and a little displeased. The other contestants more so, Curtis included. For amongst them, there was an unspoken code: never steal another baker’s recipes. 

Sure, Ms. Tatenhill swore up and down that she made changes to the recipe for it to be fully counted as an original, and while technically correct, no one believed her. Especially when several of them attested to seeing the woman at Ms. Carson’s shop that week, asking about it. Sheriff Nedley, one of the other judges, remarked that the changing of the usual dark chocolate outer layer to white chocolate constituted a legitimate change by the handbook—Waverly still can’t believe there was one—and so, she couldn’t be disqualified. Keeping her in didn’t go over well with the contestants and the audience. To this day, many residents still believe that Nedley’s lack of impartiality was due to his impatience. 

From that point on, Curtis always made sure to keep his recipes a secret. Only telling those he wholeheartedly trusted. And he did, him and Mr. Willoughby, or the Clockmaker, as he’s sometimes called, go way back. He just didn’t count on Ms. Tatenhill overhearing them. “I tell ya, thanks to that conniving woman I’ve had to go back to the drawing board.” 

“So, what’s the plan, Curtis? Gonna stick to an old favorite?” 

He chuckles, belly rumbling as he does. “No, no, I figured I do something crazy and unexpected. Like a triple berry pie!” 

Here we go again. The last time he tried his hand at baking a triple berry pie, his deciding that following a simple recipe consisting of strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries, being too bland and uninspired, forced everyone to sit at the kitchen counter and be subjected to round after round of his strange creations; confident that he was on the verge of a culinary breakthrough. Strawberry, kiwifruit, and mangoes. Peaches, passionfruit, and bananas. Honeydew melons, raspberries, and lime. In the end, everyone left with stomach aches and being put off anything remotely resembling a pie for months. Nicole, and her endearing desire to be helpful, is quick to offer any assistance he may need beyond picking berries. She has no idea what she’s getting into, now that Uncle Curtis has that wicked gleam in his eyes. 

She’ll find out soon enough. 

Dressed in a pair of loose-fitting shorts and a light t-shirt, Waverly puts on Curtis’ sunhat and gets to work. She finds a bush, full of blueberries and starts filling her basket. Occasionally popping one into her mouth, finding them easier on her taste buds than the strawberries. Curtis and Nicole move to pick at the raspberries. Eventually, Wynonna comes out to the backyard, looking to continue her heated argument with Gus but with an extra voice to serve as her ally, knowing better than to get involved with that mess, they all shake their heads. 

Wynonna, the sneaky devil, tries for the next best thing: stare Nicole down with those puppy-dogged eyes of hers. They usually work, Waverly knows from experience, and having seen firsthand how quickly they get the alpha to crumble.

But not this time.

No, Nicole, probably for the first time ever, resists. Yet, Wynonna, not liking the sudden stone-cold resolve from her favorite person, tries harder, pouting.

And still, nothing. Not even a word.

Nicole simply shakes her head, smiling,  _ you’re not going to get me this time. _

This doesn’t go over well, and now that everyone has seemingly stopped in place to watch them, the younger alpha goes in for the kill. 

“Please, Nicole?” It’s soft, unnecessary and almost babylike in sound, but entirely and undeniably genuine. 

The first few cracks start to show. Curtis supplies some verbal encouragement while Gus crosses her arms, skeptical that it’ll last. 

But through sheer will and determination, Nicole remains steadfast and Wynonna is left to wallow in her defeat. Rearing back on Gus claiming that Mike Tyson deserved his win over Donovan Ruddock to save face. Stunned, Gus is beside herself. Hockey may be their go to sport, but boxing, and as of recent, mixed martial arts, has always been the beta’s favorite. Wynonna doesn’t know much of it, but she knows enough to successfully play the contrarian and drive her aunt up the wall. 

Curtis applauds Nicole’s restraint. Though everyone knows that the alpha won’t be able to hold it together for much longer. Waverly counts the seconds, and to Nicole’s credit, she manages a whole three minutes before setting her basket aside. Curtis asks where she’s going, and Nicole responds with  _ oh, I’m just going to check something, I’ll be right back. _ Waverly shakes her head and Curtis laughs. 

“When it comes to you girls, she can never win, can she?”

“Apparently not.” 

Soon enough, Nicole returns with Wynonna in tow. Gus won their sports discussion, though it obviously won’t be their last, at least not until the season starts. But there is always a chance of them butting heads again whenever they start holding barbecues at the homestead. Nevertheless, as a sign of momentary truce between them, Gus resigns to the kitchen to make them some food. 

Wynonna grabs one of the smaller baskets and makes her way to the strawberry bushes, specifically the one closest to Nicole. 

By noon, they’ve harvested much of the garden, save for the fruits that have yet to ripen. 

Waverly and Wynonna were given a break to lounge around the backyard, grabbing their swimsuits from the trunk of the Camaro, they hop into the pool. Wynonna sinking below only to spout out a stream of water like a fountain, to then float lazily along the surface; quietly singing Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell” as she bobs from one end of the pool to the next—wearing one of Nicole’s swimming trunks, because of course she is. Waverly sticks to one side of the pool where she opens her notebook and begins translating her music notes on Bach’s Capriccio in B-Flat Major on piano to guitar. 

The adults on the other hand, head inside. Curtis starts baking his pies and Gus takes Nicole to the attic to show where there’s a leak to see if she can fix it.

“You know Gus took her away to talk about Mama, right?” Wynonna says, eyes closed, hands clasped tightly around her phone on her chest. “They’re probably talking about divorce right now.” 

Waverly freezes, pencil going off course and creating a long line that looks like a checkmark on her page. 

“Can you imagine it, though?” Wynonna continues. “Mama serving divorce papers? Again? Shit, 0-2 in the love department, talk about having bad luck.” 

“Nothing’s going to happen, okay? Mama wouldn’t do that.” 

Wynonna shrugs her shoulders. Her phone pings with a text message and picks up her phone to answer it, where she types away the screen rapidly. Keys clicking against every press. Probably texting Doc, or Mercedes Gardner, by the sound of it. Refocusing on her transcriptions, Waverly erases the stray pencil mark marring her page; she brushes off the eraser shavings as well, but feels a twinge of annoyance at having messed up the page. 

“Nicole would.”

“Okay! Stop!” Waverly slams her pencil down, point breaking off, rips her sunglasses off and turns to Wynonna with enough force the water swirls around her. 

“What? You know it’s true, Waves.” Wynonna retorts bitterly. 

“Nicole wouldn’t do that, okay? Not to us.” Waverly says, chest puffing. 

“So, she’s just going to stay in a marriage she doesn’t want to be in for our sakes? Sounds kind of selfish, if you ask me.”

Waverly fumes; blisteringly infuriated. “So, now I’m selfish?” 

“I’m just calling it like I see it, babygirl.” Wynonna floats to the other end of the pool and puts her phone down on the edge. She turns over to sit in the corner. “There isn’t a selfish bone in Nicole’s body; remember when she brought Willa and Bobo a three-week vacation at some fancy hotel in Los Angeles, as her graduation gift?” 

“Yeah... she had them stay at the Ritz-Carlton, even booked them on a bunch of true crime tours.” 

“They stayed for so long, I thought Willa was going to get corrupted and turn into a valley girl like Stephanie Jones.” 

“She’s not that bad... just a little, uh, loose.” 

“Jones is nasty, that’s what.” 

“Either way, what’s your point?” 

“Point is, Willa loved it. Came back home with blonde hair, a sun tan, and I swear to god for weeks she couldn’t stop smiling; I didn’t even know hawks could do that. She got me front row tickets to SummerSlam and TakeOver: Toronto as my graduation gift, and I’m pretty sure she’ll take you to Europe for yours.” 

“I still don’t know what you’re getting at,” Waverly tilts her head, and Wynonna sighs. 

“What I mean is that Nicole wouldn’t leave because of us, even if it pains her to stay. She’s too damn righteous.” 

“Even if they were to get divorced, Nicole would still be around—” 

“Oh come on, Waverly, how are you acting dumb right now? You’re supposed to be the smart one.” Waverly crosses her arms, and Wynonna huffs. Frustrated. “Look, the writings on the wall, and I just want Nicole to rip off the band-aid and go before it hurts more.” 

Waverly sighs. There’s nothing she can say to add or refute Wynonna’s words. Under different circumstances, she’d be in awe at the alpha’s moment of self-awareness, but is too overcome with guilt to do so. They sit in silence, the wind blowing between them.

Wynonna eventually breaks the silence and steps out of the pool; grabbing her Pantera beach towel, she dries herself with it before wrapping it around her shoulders like a cape. Phone clutched in her hand. Putting her sunglasses back on, Waverly closes her notebook and puts it to the side, folding her arms and resting her chin on top. Wynonna steps through the sliding doors and moves into the kitchen, where Curtis is busy chopping up strawberries. They talk for a moment before Curtis looks her way, he waves, likely to make sure everything was okay between them, and Waverly waves back, assuring him. She wonders if he’s talked to Nicole about divorcing his sister-in-law too. 

Would only make sense if Gus is having these conversations, then Curtis too. They’re always on the same page. Or at least the same chapter. Nicole and Mama aren’t even in the same book! Damn... why does everything have to be so complicated? At least in this position, sunglasses masking her face, she can watch and think without anyone interrupting. Probably able to pass off falling asleep as well, if no one prodded her too much.

Still, her mind is a whirlwind of thoughts now that she knows Wynonna feels the same about the marriage. Question is: how long has she been feeling this way? And why bring it up at a time where anyone could have listened in on them? Did she see or hear something that night? Or any other night for that matter? With a whine, she buries her face into her arms. “She’s right... why can’t you leave now and never come back?”

Picking her head up she watches Wynonna talk to Curtis, she can somewhat hear what they’re saying, it’s faint, but she has a pretty good idea that they’re talking about that show they like to watch on Tuesdays.

Waverly can’t remember much of it; the gist of it was a coming of age tale, incorporating werewolves and a feral child with an adorable love of raising chickens. But after sitting through the first few episodes, and having read many stories of this nature in the past, Waverly knew something bad was going to happen to the chickens everyone had come to love. Being too squeamish to wait for the reveal that she was indeed correct, she stopped watching halfway through, even with the main lead being attractive enough to cause doubt in her decision.

That’s another thing Nicole implemented as a staple within the homestead: Movie Night.

It started on a Sunday night, Nicole fresh off from work and wanting to watch a movie in the living room, and much like game night, the girls humored her. Agreeing that they would on the basis that they would be able to eat popcorn and candy like in a movie theatre, “for the real experience,” they said. She agreed, letting them pick the movie if they kept their junk food eating to a minimum (something Wynonna sucked her teeth loudly at). 

And to the alpha’s detriment, they picked a horror movie.  _ Sinister.  _ While Waverly and her sisters enjoyed it, Nicole had the habit of jumping at every jump scare. Even Calamity Jane, who sat in Willa’s lap the entire night, was better at not getting scared. From there, movie night became more about seeing how long they could terrorize Nicole until she called it quits. 

She never did. 

Months of horror movies, from the scariest, and the creepiest, to the downright gory and violent, she stayed and watched them all. Ultimately becoming desensitized. After that they strayed away from horror movies unless there was one they all wanted to see, and soon movies altogether once they started watching television. It was tough fitting everyone’s shows into one night and figuring out who got to see theirs first with the least amount of arguing. Nicole created a schedule chart, which became the basis for the chore chart weeks later, so everyone would have a go at what they wanted to see. Everyone’s names were on it, except for hers. 

“How come you’re never on the chart?” Waverly asked her once, fresh off of her 14 th birthday. “Don’t you want to watch something?”

“I don’t care what we watch as long as we do it together. It’s nice doing this as a family.” 

Soon enough, Nicole and Gus come into view. The beta on route to making lunch, most likely sandwiches—the quickest and easiest thing she can make, what with her husband having taken control of the kitchen for his baking—and the alpha, making her way outside. 

In the light of the sun, and the brief moment Nicole takes to peel off her billowy blouse and stay in a plain white tank top, it finally dawns on Waverly, that, despite having worked so many long hot days in the sun, the pale snow white of her skin refuses to darken. Going as far as to turn a light pink as if to appease the frivolous attempts to tan. At most, her skin, smooth and glistening like the underside of a lizard’s belly, will blush similar to that of an athlete’s face after a vigorous run. To Nicole’s credit, she is too pale to be out in the sun. Without the proper sunscreen, and a healthy amount of it on her delicate skin, she’d sear like fish.

Still, Waverly wonders what it would take for Nicole’s skin to color. 

Nicole steps around the pool, grabs the sunhat Wynonna had taken off her head and left on the edge and lays on one of the lounge chairs. The sunhat’s wide brim casts a shadow over her features, leaving her unreadable and unknowable. Coupled with the sunglasses still on her face, Waverly makes it a point to not look at Nicole straight on.

Waverly turns back to her notebook and continues transcribing her music. Earbuds in, she hits play on her phone, but keeps the volume at reasonably low level, too low to fully grasp Bach, but low enough that she can hear the alpha without having to stop and press pause.

They sit in silence for the most part, and it’s quite peaceful.

Until she breaks it: 

“Waverly.” 

“Yeah?” 

“How’s the water?” 

“Good.” 

“That’s nice. Don’t stay in too long, okay?” 

“I won’t.” 

A beat. 

“Want to come in?” Waverly asks. 

“Nah, some other time.” 

“It really cools you down.” 

“I don’t have a bathing suit, not even shorts.” 

“Wynonna’s wearing one of yours.” She tries harder. “She even brought a spare.” 

Nicole snorts. “No matter how hard I try to hide my stuff, she always finds them. Doesn’t even ransack my room, she just  _ finds _ them.” 

“You know she loves you.” 

“I know.” 

“She’d also love it if you got in the pool and played a game with us; Marco Polo, maybe?” 

“Not interested.”

Waverly furrows her brows, and looks up. “Are you sure?” 

“Absolutely sure,” the alpha responds, pensively, as if shying away from her offer. 

She stares at Nicole for what feels like forever.  _ Did I do something wrong? _ She wants to ask, desperate to know if she had stepped out of line anywhere. But, to her knowledge, she didn’t. Like always, she was quite cordial and apprehensive with the alpha; more often than not she was submissive too, letting Nicole dictate wherever their conversations would go and she would follow without remorse or care.

With the sunhat casting a deep shadow over Nicole’s already concealed face, Waverly feels unnerved. She shivers. Putting her notebook and pencil aside, she steps out of the pool, the water having become a lot colder than what she can withstand. Grabbing her towel from a nearby chair, she dries off. Unable to shake the feeling of being watched, she does it quickly, and once she’s done, and wraps the towel around her waist, she lays on a lounge chair. 

Waverly doesn’t say anything after that, nor does she try to talk to Nicole, who, for some reason, has become aloof since leaving with Gus. 

Yet, when Wynonna returns, that aloofness is nonexistent. 

“Doc’s coming,” Wynonna says, tempered. Nicole turns her head and tilts her sunglasses down. 

“For?” 

“Curtis wanted some boxes of instant pudding mix, I texted him, and he offered to buy some and bring them over.” 

“That was nice of him.”

Despite Wynonna’s insistence that her one/off relationship with Doc is nothing more than harmless fun, she is constantly singing his praises to Nicole in an effort for the older alpha to like him. But after spending her 18 th birthday in the drunk tank, thanks to a failed poker tournament, that then became a free-for-all brawl when one of Doc’s friends, Stevie, accused Herman Tatenhill of cheating, Nicole hasn’t had a high opinion of him since.

In fact, Nicole’s even outright tried to suggest that Wynonna find someone more “suitable”, someone who won’t let her get shitfaced and into scuffles with others. Preferably someone who isn’t two-years older.

She mentioned Ewan Allenbach, Purgatory High’s former star quarterback and Wynonna’s classmate, who had just begun his training as a junior fireman. But to her dismay, and Wynonna’s irritation, the younger alpha wrinkled her nose and waved the all-Canadian boy off; finding him too “boring” and too “bland”. 

Discussions like these always ended in—not arguments, no, they could never bring themselves that far, but the discussions were indeed tense. Tense enough that Nicole quietly agreed to bite her tongue and say nothing more, as long as there were never any repeats of that night, and out of courtesy, Wynonna agreed to always notifying her of his presence beforehand. 

And when he arrives, carrying a big white bag full of different boxes of instant pudding mixes, and an assortment of other items he took the liberty of getting just in case. He greets everyone with a tip of his cowboy hat that had become synonymous with him. Except Nicole. Leaving the alpha for last was probably his way of trying to gauge whether she disliked more or less today. Taking the initiative, he extends his hand out. 

Nicole shakes his hand, the subtle flex of her arm does not go unnoticed, leaving Doc, despite being an inch taller, to slump his shoulders in an effort to seem non-threatening. 

It comes as no surprise that after he’s done the favor, he wants to leave. No matter how much Wynonna would quietly whisper for him to stay and try currying some brownie points, the omega would shake his head and counter with an excuse. Waverly doesn’t blame him. Though she can’t imagine being in Wynonna’s position either.

Gus insists on him staying, at least long enough to try one of her peameal bacon sandwiches. She’s always been nicer to him, and with a little more prodding, they have him sitting in the backyard at the patio table with a plate ready for him. He sits in between Gus and Wynonna, arguably the safest place for him to be.

They make small talk: asking what his plans were for the summer, if he was going to be attending the Canada Day Fair, how business was for his father’s bed and breakfast, etc. Naturally, Nicole asks if he’ll be attending Ghost River this summer, to which he replies with a no; stating that with being a full-time worker at his father’s bed and breakfast, he has a better chance at taking online courses. He ultimately wants to manage his own bar, with plans of arming it to the teeth in cowboy paraphernalia, but he also wants to get a degree in philosophy.

Curtis loves the idea, as do Waverly and Wynonna. Nicole simply nods her head in understanding. 

Gus, having already been won over months ago, is delighted when she asks him if he would like some juice, and he, with a mouthful of bacon, nods. Having never spent a day with them like this, Doc was probably expecting orange or grapefruit juice; what he got was a large glass filled to the rim with thick apricot juice. It was obvious he had never had apricot juice in his life.

The whole scene is very reminiscent of the first time Nicole had visited Gus and Curtis’ home. Just like Doc, she had never eaten apricot, much less drink apricot juice, either. It was a foreign concept, being raised on the traditional three: apple, orange, and grape; sometimes cranberry. Gus had stood at the corner of this exact table, salver flat against her apron (at the time, it was embroidered with flowers instead of cherries), as she and everyone else leaned in, trying to make out the alpha’s reaction as she gulped it down. Nicole said nothing at first, Then, probably without thinking, smacked her lips. She loved it. And from that day on, anytime she came for a visit, there would be a pitcher ready made just for her. 

And now it wasn’t just her.

Doc’s blue eyes are alight with the discovery of something new and delicious. Wynonna breathes out a sigh of relief, and Curtis applauds his wife for ensnaring another apricot lover. 

The male omega is baffled to know that apricot trees existed in Alberta, and of all places, their garden. Curtis, being the green thumb of the family, hopped on the opportunity to go into depth on all the intricacies of growing and raising fruit.

But what truly amazed everyone, was that Doc knew more about apricots than Curtis did.

Their grafts, etymology, origins, fortunes in and around the Mediterranean. The result of having been raised in Quebec and learning English from reading his aspiring mother’s vegetables, herbs and fruit encyclopedia.

He explained that the name held its origins in the Arabic, the word in Italian, _albicocca_ , _abricot_ in French, _aprikose_ in German, like the words “algebra”, “alchemy”, and “alcohol”. Deriving from an Arabic noun combined with the Arabic article “al-” before it. The origin of _albicocca_ was _al-birquq._ And while everyone had to pick up their jaws from the floor, and Wynonna whistling, “holy shit you're smart”, Doc continues, feeling more confident. Adding how amazing it is that in Israel and many Arab countries the fruit is referred to by a totally different name: “mishmish”. 

Nonplussed, everyone, including Nicole, had an impulse to clap. Curtis explicitly extends an invitation for Doc to drop by their home anytime he wants, citing that he would love to have another person to talk pomology with. Unable to stutter out a reply, Doc blushes and nods.

However, on the matter of etymologies, Nicole begs to differ. Though, this was something she told Waverly privately at the end of the day.

Apricot actually wasn’t an Arabic word. Many Latin words are derived from Greek, but in the case of ‘apricot’, it’s the other way around with the Greek taking over from the Latin. The Latin word  _ praecoquum _ , from the pre-  _ coquere _ , meaning pre-cook, or to ripen early, as in “precocious”, meaning premature. The Byzantines borrowed  _ praecox _ , and it in turn became  _ prekokkia _ or  _ berikokki _ , which is finally how the Arabs must have inherited it as  _ al-birquq. _

Courtesy of Philology 101. 

Waverly watches Wynonna stand so close to Doc against his pink Cadillac. “Why didn’t you say something?” 

“I wasn’t going to cut his legs out from under him, he looked proud of himself; Wynonna looked proud of him.” Nicole says. 

“He’s not a bad guy, you know.” 

“I just worry of bad influences in her life; I trust Bobo because I know he would never do anything to hurt Willa, and I’ll trust whatever person you get into a relationship with because I know you wouldn’t choose someone bad.”

Doc leaves, and Wynonna, practically skipping, returns to the Camaro. Uncaring that Waverly sat up front with Nicole, buckling herself into the middle, she leans in between their seats and starts going on and on about all the other etymology stuff the omega knows. Like how “peach” is from the Old French _pesche_ , which comes from the medieval Latin _persica_ , that came from Latin _persicum_ , meaning literally “Persian apple”.

Nicole doesn’t say anything, and neither does Waverly.


End file.
